


this is the part where we fall in love

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Notting Hill AU, also includes shitty paparazzi, and song lyrics i brazenly stole from other bands, bill and missy are in his band, but with music instead of acting, kind of, reluctantly smitten river has a bookshop, rock star twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-17 10:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11849490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: Across the street, a man dressed in sunglasses, dark jeans, and a hoodie beneath a velvet jacket darts across the lane like he’s being chased. To her amusement, he runs a bit like a penguin, arms waving and his feet quick. As she stifles a smile, he ducks into her shop.





	1. got a problem with your shoes and your tunes

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Make You Mine by Us. Chapter title from The Sound by the 1975. Lyrics used in this chapter from Left Hand Free by Alt-J and Sex by the 1975.

_She has ice in her heart, a kiss on her lips, and a vulnerable side she keeps –_

 

River hums absently under her breath, fingers hovering over the space bar. “Hey shady baby, I’m hot like a prodigal son – oh, for god’s sake.” She slides off her glasses and tosses them onto her workspace, glaring at them when they bounce off a thick book spine and clatter to the floor.

 

A shout from the back room sets her teeth on edge. “All right, River?”

 

She stoops to pick up her eyeglasses. “Peachy,” she grumbles, then louder, “Just having trouble concentrating. Can you turn that radio down, Ramone?”

 

“Sorry!” The damned song that has been stuck in her head for days fades away, replaced by Ramone’s footsteps. He leans against the doorway, his handsome face splitting into a sympathetic grimace. “Still no luck?”

 

“Not really.” She turns to glare at the half-finished chapter mocking her from her laptop. “And every time I think I might be getting somewhere, that bloody song pops into my head.”

 

Ramone smirks and River looks away before she forgets all the reasons she stopped sleeping with him. “Not a fan of TARDIS? You’ve got to admit John Smith has made a hell of a comeback.”

 

“So I’ve noticed.” She harrumphs and returns to staring down her unfinished manuscript. “At least someone is having a bit of success.”

 

Behind her, Ramone sighs patiently. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ll make you some tea and then you can get to work on some of those book repairs while I mind the front, yeah?”

 

Why _did_ she stop sleeping with Ramone? For the life of her she can’t remember. Maybe she should start again… It would certainly make slow days like this a lot more interesting. River snaps her laptop shut and fluffs her hair. “Tea would be lovely.”

 

With a wink that melts away a bit more of her resolve to never take her shop assistant to bed again, Ramone disappears through the doorway. River leans against the counter and listens to him search for the kettle, staring out into the street. Considering it isn’t time for either the carnival or market day, Notting Hill is surprisingly busy today – or at least what little of it she can see from her shop window.

 

Across the street, a man dressed in sunglasses, dark jeans, and a hoodie beneath a velvet jacket darts across the lane like he’s being chased. To her amusement, he runs a bit like a penguin, arms waving and his feet quick. As she stifles a smile, he ducks into her shop.

 

The bell jingles violently as he slams the door and the lanky, gray-haired stranger flinches away from the noise like it had been a gunshot. “Hello,” she says, just to see him jump again. “Can I help you with something?”

 

“Maybe,” he says in a thick Scottish accent. He doesn’t turn around to look at her, staring at the door like he expects it to burst open any moment. “Got any books on how to disappear?”

 

River arches an eyebrow. “I’ve got everything.” When he snorts, she rattles off, “Samri Herrmann. Magician born in 1848. He kept an extensive journal about his performances and all his secrets. The notes on his disappearing act are on page 37.”

 

The Scottish stranger grumbles under his breath about know-it-alls, peering out the window for a moment like he’s expecting to be followed. When no one comes tearing down the street after him, he finally seems to relax. He releases a deep breath and turns to face her, looking reluctantly impressed. “Well he can’t have been any good. I’ve never heard of him.”

 

She smirks, blinking innocently at him. “Sorry, I thought that was the sort of magic you were looking for.”

 

Behind the dark frames of his sunglasses, she sees his heavy brows arch in surprise. “Touché,” he admits, a touch of admiration in his voice. “But I’m not supposed to run away from my problems anymore. So what about a book on how to tell photographers to fuck off without making every rag in the United Kingdom speculate about my next stint in rehab?”

 

River stares at him, watching him browse a shelf of books behind a case, dragging his fingertip along the glass and smudging it beyond hope. She bites back a reprimand, too intrigued to scare him off just yet. “I think you’re looking for the self help section of Waterstones. This is a rare books shop.”

 

He hums, his back turned to her as he taps his fingers against the glass in a melodic rhythm that seems designed to irritate. “Thought you had everything,” he grumbles.

 

She ignores him, studying the way he darts the occasional glance out the shop window like a hunted animal. Leaning her elbows on the counter, River rests her chin in her open palm and asks, “Is there a reason people are trying to photograph you? Have they mistaken you for a time-traveling magician?”

 

He peers at her through his dark lenses and though his expression doesn’t change, she gets the distinct feeling he wants to laugh. “Well that’s certainly rich coming from the sexy librarian.”

 

River frowns. “I’m not a librarian; I’m an antiquarian. I repair and sell old books.”

 

“Can’t write any of your own?”

 

She stiffens. “Excuse me?”

 

He shrugs, his lips curling into a smirk. “You know what they say. Those who can do and those who can’t sell someone else’s books.”

 

River smiles, slow and dangerous. “And those who can do neither lurk in shops hitting on gorgeous strangers.”

 

He grins at her, sudden and wide and with too much teeth. River stares at him and feels something hot and fluttery unfurl in her stomach, liquid heat turning her insides molten. He lifts a slender hand to remove his sunglasses and her breath hitches in her throat.

 

Eyes widening, she breathes, “You.”

 

Oh she could _hang_ herself. How could she not have instantly recognized all that wild gray hair – especially when it’s plastered across every magazine in the country? And she’d been flirting with him. He’d actually piqued her interest with his intense desire to bicker and that wicked grin. Of course she would be attracted to Britain’s biggest rock star and consequently biggest arsehole.

 

Intriguing though he may be, she’s all too familiar with all the headlines surrounding John Smith of TARDIS. Typical for a man of his fame, it had been story after story of sex and drugs and punching photographers in his younger days. He’d disappeared for a while and though rumors of rehab swirled for a long time, it was never confirmed.

 

Wherever he’d been, he’d shown up again a few years ago better than ever and with a whole new band. She might even dare to say he’s more famous now than he’s ever been. Apparently he’s still quite the miserable bugger but he’s a genius on the guitar and his lyrics have been known to make knickers drop, which she supposes is why everyone puts up with the surly idiot.

 

John Smith of legend, the man rumored to have leapt from a hotel window in India with his guitar on his back just to escape a groupie, the man who sang _if we’re gonna do anything we might as well just fuck_ with the Queen of England sitting in the audience, actually looks a little self-conscious at her silent gaping. He waggles his fingers at her and confirms gruffly, “Me.”

 

Shaking her head quickly in an effort to snap herself out of her stupor, River musters a glare and directs it at him. “Your bloody song has been driving me mad all day.”

 

Tongue caught between his teeth, he raises his brows. “A fan of my work then?”

 

She stifles a growl, smiling sweetly. “Hardly. You’re really more of a sideshow attraction at this point, dear. Everyone’s only waiting to see what you’ll do next. Though I do like your drummer. Wherever did you find her?”

 

He scowls, tucking his sunglasses into the pocket of his coat as he mutters, “Everybody likes Bill best.”

 

River smirks, a retort on the tip of her tongue, when the sound of footsteps and rattling teacups reaches her ears. “Do you still take lemon and honey in yours, River? I brought a bit of cream just in case-”

 

She bites back a sigh and calls out, “Ramone, we have -” Without looking up from the tray he balances, Ramone rounds the corner and walks right into John. The sound of shattering china fills the room, along with a few inventive curses from John as scalding tea soaks through his hoodie. River shuts her eyes and finishes, “Company.”

 

Gaping at him, Ramone claps a hand over his mouth and mutters behind his palm, “Oh my god. I’m so sorry – I didn’t even see you.”

 

“S’fine.” John barely pays him any mind, hissing through gritted teeth as he pulls the soaked hoodie away from his skin. “Fucking hell, did you boil it over a volcano back there?”

 

Ramone flushes.

 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” River rolls her eyes, further amused when he gapes at her. Probably not used to being mocked, the spoiled sod. “That old stove barely heats anymore.”

 

“Oh that’s fine,” he says, his thickened accent heavy with disdain. “I’ll just tell that to the blisters currently forming then.”

 

Still looking mortified, Ramone opens his mouth to apologize again but River bites back a snort. “I’ve got first aid and fresh clothes upstairs if you think you can make it that far.” She ushers the grumpy bugger toward the staircase in the back room, stepping over the mess on the floor. Glancing at her shop assistant, she pats him on the arm and says, “Be a dear and sweep up that glass, would you?”

 

Ramone squeaks out an affirmative, still blushing.

 

The stairs creak under their feet as River leads John up to her flat and even the tread of his heavy boots sounds agitated. She pushes open the door at the top of the staircase and slips inside, leaving him standing in the doorway as she goes off in search of supplies.

 

In her bedroom, she finds an old t-shirt of Ramone’s in the back of her closet and tugs it out of hiding. She ducks into her tiny bathroom and rummages through the cupboard until she finds the first aid kit she rarely ever uses anymore. Her pub brawling days are behind her, it seems. It’s a depressing thought but she pushes it aside to sulk over later, when there isn’t an overdramatic guitarist lurking in her living room.

 

When she returns with her prizes, she finds him standing at the mantle with his hands behind his back, peering intently at a photograph of her with Amy and Rory on her last birthday. They’d taken her to Ministry of Sound in London and made her wear a tiara all night, plying her with so many margaritas that by the time that picture had been taken she’d been all too happy to pose between them – her smile wide and her tiara lopsided amongst her tangled curls.

 

“You’ll need to take your shirt off.”

 

He whirls, his velvet coat flaring out as he turns on his heel and stares at her with wide blue eyes. Awfully easy to scandalize for a rock star, she notes with delight. “Sorry?”

 

She smirks, waving the first aid kit tantalizingly. “I’ll need to treat those blisters you’re so worried about.”

 

His mouth opens and closes for a moment before sound comes out. “I don’t -” He clears his throat and his voice comes out rougher than before. “That won’t be necessary.”

 

Eyes narrowing, River pushes off the doorframe and starts toward him. “Look Grandad, all I’ve got is this little shop and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the book business isn’t what it used to be. The last thing I need is a lawsuit on my hands over some hot tea now don’t make me ask again.”

 

He swallows, eyeing her down the bridge of his nose. “What if I promise not to sue?”

 

River tilts her head, smiling thinly. “I don’t trust you. Or anyone. Sorry.”

 

Pursing his lips, John studies her for a long moment. “Is this some sort of elaborate scheme to get my kit off and sell pictures to the papers because -”

 

“Oh for the love of god, I nor anyone else would pay to see your skinny arse so take off the damned hoodie.” She glares, unmoved by his grunt of outrage, and taps her foot. “I’m waiting.”

 

“Some people would pay,” he grumbles, shrugging out of his coat. “Lots of people, in fact. I’m very fucking famous, I’ll have you know.”

 

River hums, dropping the first aid kit on her second-hand coffee table and rummaging for a packet of wipes. “So I’ve heard,” she mutters, and hears him struggling out of his tea-soaked hoodie. It hits the floor with a splat and she glances up, antiseptic wipe in hand.

 

He’s pretty much exactly what one would expect from such a lanky string bean of a man – slender and pale with surprisingly little chest hair. What he does have is sparse and gray, barely covering reedy muscles built from a lifetime of never sitting still. He has a few tattoos he’d probably acquired in his younger days – strange circular writings across his ribs that she’s fairly certain she’s seen before in one of her books; a few music notes along his collarbone; an open-faced pocket watch etched into his forearm; a constellation scattered delicately across one pectoral.

 

John clears his throat and River glances away with an inward curse, very aware that he’d caught her staring. Damn him. She swallows, refusing to meet his gaze as she busies herself with inspecting the place on his stomach where the tea had seeped through and burned his skin.

 

She settles onto the edge of her coffee table and mutters an order for him to keep still. His skin is red and a few places across his pale, flat abdomen have started to swell up a bit but thankfully it doesn’t look as if it’ll blister. She swipes the disinfectant wipe across his skin anyway, biting her lip as her knuckles brush his stomach.

 

John breathes in sharply above her but she doesn’t look at him, keeping her gaze fastened on her task. “You know,” he begins, his voice a little rough. “I think this is the fastest a woman has ever gotten me undressed before.”

 

“Really?” River smirks, forcing some levity into her voice as she turns away and picks up the little tube of ointment beside her. “Not even close for me.”

 

He harrumphs grumpily but falls abruptly silent when she presses her fingertips into his skin, rubbing the ointment gently into the angry red marks. This close to him, she can tell he isn’t even breathing. Not even she would dare mention it but his stomach trembles lightly beneath her touch. She risks a peek at him through her lashes and finds him watching her silently, his eyes dark.

 

Her breath catches and that same hot, throbbing flutter reappears in her stomach – exactly the way it had downstairs before she realized who he was, when they’d been bickering and he’d grinned at her. She swallows, glancing quickly away and dropping her hand. “There you go,” she says, standing up and putting some distance between them. “All better.”

 

John mutters a hoarse _thanks_ but she doesn’t look at him again, blindly tossing Ramone’s old t-shirt in his direction. “The Savoy has dry cleaning,” he says, clearing his throat. “You don’t need to -” He unfolds the t-shirt, inspecting it with a frown. “Coldplay? Seriously?”

 

Pausing in the middle of shoving supplies back into the first aid kit, River glances over her shoulder and finds him wrinkling his nose at the shirt in his hands. “It’s not mine,” she says, a touch defensively. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks of her taste in music but well, _Coldplay_.

 

“Ah,” he says, understanding softening his scowl. “The lost relic of an ex.”

 

She turns away again. “Something like that.”

 

“I hate leftovers,” he grumbles, but she hears him struggling into the shirt anyway. “But I can see why you broke it off. Shit taste in music, whoever he was.”

 

River hums her agreement. “He likes you as well.”

 

Behind her, John sputters. “Are you suggesting TARDIS is in any way similar to Coldplay? Because -”

 

“Of course not,” she says, pursing her lips against a smile. “Chris Martin would never wear a TARDIS t-shirt.”

 

He scowls. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste. Look who he married.”

 

“True.” She wrinkles her nose, tilting her head. “I suppose you’re even.”

 

“ _Even_?” He makes a scandalized noise in the back of his throat and River swallows a bout of laughter, watching him try to gather his dignity. He tugs at Ramone’s old t-shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles and glaring at her. “Thanks for the rubbish shirt. You won’t be getting it back because I plan to burn it onstage at my next show. Cheers.”

 

Hands on her hips and traitorous mouth curling into a smile, River watches him stalk toward the door. He isn’t at all the man the press tries to paint him as – angry and rude and always looking for his next high or fuck. He’s really more of a grumpy, foul-mouthed sod with a tendency to smile in the face of criticism. She… _likes_ him.

 

Bugger it, she’s shagging Ramone as soon as he leaves.

 

River waves half-heartedly. “It’s been interesting, John Smith. Surreal but interesting.”

 

“Good band name,” he mutters, wearing another of those soft, disarming grins. Without another word, he slips out the door and down the stairs.

 

River stares after him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, until the faint sound of his footsteps fades away. Shaking herself, she turns pointedly from the door and finishes gathering up her first aid kit, tucking everything back into the box with unnecessary force. “You’re an idiot,” she mutters. “Mooning after him like some damned groupie just because he’s _interesting_ -”

 

“I forgot my coat.”

 

She whirls, eyes wide, and sees John standing in the doorway awkwardly. “Oh.” Cheeks burning, she turns and reaches for his velvet coat draped over the back of her overstuffed armchair. She holds it out to him and he meets her halfway, his fingers brushing hers as he takes the coat from her hands. “Wouldn’t want to forget that.” She licks her lips, avoiding his gaze. “How will anyone know how mysterious and eccentric you are without it?”

 

“My thoughts exactly,” he murmurs, and when she looks up, his eyes are on her mouth. She breathes in, her body swaying unconsciously toward him, and John doesn’t need further invitation than that.

 

His rough palm slides along her jaw, his fingertips dipping into her hair as he leans in and brings her mouth to his. It’s an oddly chaste kiss, soft and sweet and entirely at odds with the man she’d always assumed he was. Despite the new shirt, he still smells like tea and cigarette smoke. As his lips brush hers again and again in a soft caress that makes her knees weak, she grips his sleeve and tries desperately to keep her world right side up.

 

When he pulls away, River feels so dizzy and breathless he might as well have snogged her senseless. She swallows thickly, hot all over as John drops his hand from her face and steps reluctantly away. Cheeks flushed and breathing unsteady, he ruffles his wild gray hair with a shaking hand and says, “I can’t imagine why you’d want to brag about snogging an old man but best not mention it, just in case.”

 

River laughs, a soft, breathless puff of air that makes him smile. “I’ll keep it between me and myself.” She licks her tingling lips and tries to draw in a proper breath, her lungs burning. “And even I won’t believe it.”

 

“For the best,” he says, eyes still lingering on her mouth. “Trust me.”

 

Clutching his coat in one white-knuckled hand, he turns away from her and starts for the door again. River watches him go with her heart in her throat. “Everybody Lives,” she blurts.

 

John freezes in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder, his brow furrowed.

 

Forcing back a smile, she admits grudgingly, “It’s… not a terrible song. And you play… decently in it.”

 

The grin that spreads across John’s face is so wide and ridiculous that anyone who saw it would have thought she’d offered him the front cover of Rolling Stone for the next six months. It lights up her whole tiny flat, brightening everything in it even after he turns away and leaves, his heavy black boots thumping on the stairs as he goes.

 

River leans against a nearby chair, heart pounding, and gives herself a moment to recover. She doesn’t venture back into the shop until she has the embarrassing smile on her face under control, reluctant to discuss the reason for it with Ramone – especially when she doesn’t quite understand it herself.

 

He’s waiting for her when she finally returns, the flush gone from her cheeks and her heart very nearly at a normal rate again. The moment he sees her, he abandons the new pot of tea he’s preparing and rushes toward her with wide brown eyes. “River, do you have any idea who that was?!”

 

When he’d taken off those sunglasses, she certainly thought she’d known exactly who John Smith was but now… “No, actually. I don’t think I do.”

 

“That was _the_ lead singer and guitarist for TARDIS. _John Smith_ was just in your shop, River.” Brow furrowed, Ramone turns to stare out the shop window, as if he might still be able to see him. “And I think he was wearing my shirt.”


	2. take my hand and my heart and soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She finds her body swaying toward him against her own wishes, drawn inexorably toward the strange magnetism he exudes. It oozes from him like a song, some unknown tune only she can hear. She can’t quite make out the words but the closer she gets, the clearer it becomes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a party, brownies, and a misunderstanding. 
> 
> Chapter title from One by Ed Sheeran.

However ratty John Smith’s dreadful hoodie appears, River knows the brand etched into the tag inside it. She used to steal from that store in her younger days. The idiot had easily dropped a thousand pounds for the thing. She carries it – freshly dry-cleaned and no longer smelling of tea – draped over her arm as she steps into the lobby of the Savoy, her mobile wedged between her ear and her shoulder.

 

The place drips with money, every polished tile in the marble floor and every glimmering chandelier speaking of a wealth and status she has never known. It’s the sort of place she would have taken great pleasure in trashing in her misspent youth. Now, with a few more years and a bit of growing up under her belt, the historian within her looks around with admiration. Everything is a strange mix of art deco and Edwardian design, the antique tucked alongside the modern in an oddly seamless blend.

 

“River, are you even listening? I swear to god if you forget my birthday brownies-”

 

Snapping back into focus, River pulls her gaze away from a particularly lovely wall sconce straight out of the twenties to roll her eyes. “I’m not going to forget your brownies, dear.” She walks right past the front desk without so much as a glance, knowing from experience that the best way to go unnoticed is to pretend like you belong. “It’s only been a tradition since you turned fifteen.”

 

Spotting a pair of much less innocuous teenage girls, River trails behind them – far enough not to arouse suspicion but near enough to hear what they’re whispering furtively to each other. “My cousin works night shift here and swears he’s here under the name Doctor Funkenstein on the seventh floor.”

 

River smiles and turns away just as a security guard approaches the girls. As they’re questioned, found wanting, and immediately escorted back outside, she slips into the lift and presses the button for the seventh floor. In her ear, Amy is still talking.

 

“I’m headed out with Rory to pick up the booze. Any requests?”

 

“Anything.” The lift dings and River steps out, glancing to her left and smiling when she sees more security officers loitering down the corridor. “A lot of it.”

 

“Request most definitely granted.” Amy covers the phone with her hand, her voice muffled as she shouts for Rory to help her find her purse. “We’re eating at six with or without you. Don’t you dare be late.”

 

“Wouldn’t -” River frowns, pulling back the phone with a curse when she realizes Amy hadn’t waited for a reply before hanging up on her. Muttering to herself, she tucks the phone into her bag. “Birthday girls who hang up on their best friend don’t get brownies.”

 

Even so, she’ll definitely bring the brownies. As she’d learned when they were teenagers, Amy’s infamous wrath isn’t worth the minute satisfaction of one-upping her.

 

“Ma’am? Can I help you?”

 

She looks up into the eyes of a security guard with green hair, green eyes, and the tattoo of a lizard on her neck. Smiling broadly, River fishes the fake credentials from her bag – she hasn’t used them in years but she’s hoping it’ll still get the job done – and flashes them at the woman. “I’m a reporter for The Wire. I have an interview with Mr. Smith.”

 

The green-haired young woman examines her ID briefly and nods. “Room 1200.”

 

Murmuring her thanks, River slips right by her and the rest of the security detail, striding right up to room 1200 at the end of the hall and rapping her knuckles against the door. It’s only after she does so and hears the mutter of his voice from inside the room that she finally wonders what in god’s name she’s going to say to him – the famous musician who had wandered into her shop to get away from the paparazzi, the grumpy customer her ex had spilled tea all over, the strangely compelling man who had kissed her so sweetly and walked away.

 

This had been an absolutely rubbish idea.

 

Before she can drop the hoodie on his doorstep and flee, the door swings open and a bald, portly fellow in thick-rimmed glasses peers out at her. “What do you want?”

 

River flashes him her most charming smile, dangling her credentials in front of him. “I have an interview with Mr. Smith at eleven.”

 

He squints at her. “He doesn’t have any interviews today.”

 

“Let her in, Nardole.” Over his shoulder, River spots John on the balcony overlooking the Thames. He stashes his cigarette on the railing and ventures back into the room, striding toward them while River and Nardole glare at each other. “And bugger off while you’re at it.”

 

Nardole huffs. “How am I supposed to be your manager if you won’t let me manage you?”

 

“I let you manage my schedule, not me.” John wings an eyebrow at him, his blue eyes narrowed. “Now get lost before I change my mind about that appearance on Graham tomorrow.”

 

With a squeak and a grumble, Nardole casts River one last suspicious glance and makes himself scarce, slipping past her and down the hall. River turns back to John and her breath catches as she gets her first decent look at him since he appeared. He’s dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt that says _I Just Look Like Him_ , his feet bare and his silver hair as ruffled as ever. He’s smiling at her, that very same soft grin he’d been wearing after he kissed her.

 

She swallows, holding up the garment bag over her arm. “I tried giving it to a homeless man but even he refused it so I’m returning your hoodie.”

 

John snorts, taking the bag from her and tossing it onto his bed. “Mind if I have a smoke?”

 

Standing in the doorway while John strides across the thick carpet of his room and returns to the balcony, River sighs and shuts the door, following after him. His room is as stately and sumptuous as the rest of the hotel, a massive four-poster bed and an Edwardian writing desk on one side of the room and an elegant sitting room on the other. There’s a dining table near the balcony, littered with scraps of paper with half-finished lyrics. One of the chairs holds his guitar.

 

River steps out onto the balcony, shaking her head when John offers her his cigarette. “Thanks but I quit a few years ago.”

 

He shrugs, taking another long drag. “It’s the only vice I’ve got left and they’ll pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

 

She bites back a smile, picturing John’s nervous little manager Nardole trying to make him quit doing anything he didn’t want to do. River didn’t envy him the job one bit – the poor fellow certainly has his work cut out for him. She stares out at the Thames and allows herself the guilty pleasure of breathing in John’s cigarette smoke, firmly telling herself she doesn’t miss it. Amy would kill her if she started again.

 

John blows a ring of smoke into the air and says, “I checked the papers this morning. Nothing in it about TARDIS lead singer slash guitarist John Smith snogging a librarian against her will.”

 

Frowning at her fingers wrapped around the balcony railing, River says, “I’m not a librarian, I’m an conservationist who specializes in books.” She swallows, sensing his eyes on her. “And it wasn’t against my will.”

 

“No?”

 

He sounds far too pleased, as if he’d known all along but simply wanted to hear her say it. Bastard. She huffs and snaps, “I should have thought that was obvious, darling.”

 

The pet name slips from her mouth without thought and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the flash of John’s wide grin just before he puckers his lips around his cigarette again. “I didn’t want to assume,” he mutters.

 

River scowls. “I told you I wouldn’t talk to the papers.”

 

He shrugs, staring distantly out over the city. “People say things. Don’t always mean them.”

 

She tips up her chin. “I do.”

 

Lips twitching around his fag, John says, “I’ve noticed.”

 

His eyes search out hers and once she meets his gaze it’s easy to lose herself in those soft blue irises. She finds her body swaying toward him against her own wishes, drawn inexorably toward the strange magnetism he exudes. It oozes from him like a song, some unknown tune only she can hear. She can’t quite make out the words but the closer she gets, the clearer it becomes.

 

She hasn’t moved an inch but it feels as though she’s standing right before him, her fingers brushing his soft t-shirt and her lungs breathing in smoke and melodies. Swallowing, River tightens her fingers around the railing and sways on her feet, rattled by the urge to close the distance between them.

 

Eyes burning, John watches her like he feels it too. The soft request he utters next only confirms it. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

 

_Yes_ is on the tip of her tongue, an instinctive reaction her whole body screams at her to comply with. The word is halfway out of her mouth before she remembers she can’t. Shaking her head, River watches the light in John’s eyes begin to dim.

 

“I can’t tonight. It’s my best friend’s birthday and I’m in charge of the brownies.” She forces a smile, wondering if he can hear the disappointment in her voice. Imagine that, disappointed about not spending time with John Smith. What a bizarre turn her life has taken. “Canceling would mean certain death.”

 

John snorts quietly. “Well, I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

 

He takes another long drag of his cigarette and turns to stare out at the Thames. The breeze tousles his gray curls and he purses his lips, his eyes squinting into the distance for a long moment while River stands silently beside him, cursing the day of Amy’s birth and wondering why it even matters. Twenty-four hours ago, she was raging at the sound of his voice on the radio.

 

Finally, he stubs out his fag on the balcony railing and flicks it into a potted plant. He clears his throat, straightening from his elegant slouch. “I like parties.”

 

She laughs softly, picturing their annual dinner at the Pond residence, Amy and Rory nagging her to settle down, drinking too much wine, and fighting over the last brownie. “It’s not so much a party as a -” She pauses, tilting her head. John pointedly ignores her stare. “Are you… are you asking to come with me?”

 

He shrugs, still avoiding her gaze.

 

She swallows back the knot of hope tangled in her throat. “It’ll be dull compared to the parties you’re used to.”

 

“I’m getting old,” he says, finally glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe I’d like a bit of dull now and then.”

 

Fingers white-knuckled around the balcony railing, River breathes in the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and thinks of her wild youth – of staring into the face of something stupid and dangerous and potentially heartbreaking with a daring grin on her face. Maybe those days aren’t quite over just yet. “Come to the party with me.”

 

John smiles, slow and wide and achingly smug. “If you insist.”

 

-

 

With a box of freshly made brownies from Violet Bakery under her arm and a rock legend at her side who, to her horror, happens to make her tingle in all the right places, River presses the doorbell of the Pond residence and listens to the sound of her exuberant best mate race for the door. She’s not quite sure when her life went so utterly catawampus but she suspects it had been the moment John Smith decided to duck into her shop to avoid a gaggle of photographers.

 

As she listens to footsteps approaching the door from the other side, River glances at John and murmurs, “Apologies in advance.”

 

His brow furrows. “For what?

 

“You’ll see.”

 

He glances uneasily toward the door just as Amy throws it open and squeals, throwing her arms around River like they don’t see each other nearly every day. “I’m so glad you’re here. Rory has kicked me out of my own kitchen for getting the spice rack all out of order. Like anyone wants saffron in the front. It belongs in the back with the rest of the rejects.”

 

River pats her back with her free hand, turning her face into Amy’s flaming red hair and breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. “Happy Birthday, Amy.”

 

Amy squeezes her tight, pulling back to grin at her. “What took you so long? I know you didn’t make those brownies yourself.”

 

Drawing in a fortifying breath, River pastes on a smile. “I had to pick up someone on the way.”

 

Eyes widening, Amy’s grip on her arm grows nearly painful. “Oh my god, you actually brought someone? You, River Song – commitment-phobe extraordinaire, the woman infamous for hitting it and quitting it – actually liked someone enough to bring them round? Rory’ll faint.” She peers around River at the shadowy figure on the stoop behind her, grinning widely. “Hello, I’m -” She trails off, the smile slipping from her face as she finally gets a good look at the man River had brought along. She claps a hand to her mouth, her voice muffled as she speaks through her slim fingers. “Oh bloody hell. It’s John Smith.”

 

John nods warily, offering Amy a half-hearted wave.

 

Amy makes a faintly embarrassing noise and drops her hand from her mouth, her eyes wide. “You brought John Smith to my birthday party.” Her fingers grip River’s arm again. “Is he my present?”

 

Prying Amy’s fingers from her wrist, River clears her throat and glances at John. “This is why I’m sorry,” she says softly.

 

He winks at her, holding out the bouquet he’s been carrying. “This is your present. Much more agreeable than me and far less expensive.”

 

Amy snatches the bouquet from him, holding it to her chest and pressing her face into the petals. She breathes in and smiles, her eyes soft. “You brought me sunflowers. How did you know I like sunflowers?”

 

When she looks at River questioning, River holds up her hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

 

Amy laughs, still clutching her bouquet as she leans in and startles the hell out of poor John by presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. “We’re best friends already then.”

 

John stares at her, apparently at a loss for words, and River nudges Amy with a pout. “I thought I was your best friend.”

 

“Well you were a placeholder until I finally met John Smith. You’re stuck with Rory now, sorry.” Amy beams, planting an enthusiastic, noisy kiss against River’s cheek too before twirling on her heel and marching off. “Rory! River’s here and she brought a date!”

 

“Really?”

 

River rolls her eyes at the incredulous question, watching Rory pop his head out the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He stops short at the sight of John, blinking owlishly for a moment. John stares at him uncertainly, clearly preparing himself for another reaction like Amy’s. Rory, bless him, merely smiles and holds out a hand. John shakes it firmly, looking relieved.

 

“Nice to meet you, John.” Rory inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Want a glass of wine?”

 

“Please,” he mutters, and follows Rory dutifully toward the booze.

 

River watches them go, smirking when John glances over his shoulder to make sure she’s following. Who would have thought the mysterious badass the media tries so hard to portray would be afraid of a little socializing? Damn him to hell but it only makes him more endearing.

 

She sighs, moving to follow after them, but Amy’s hand on her shoulder stops her. Pressing close with a disbelieving grin on her face, she hisses, “What the hell is John Smith doing in my house? Are you shagging him?”

 

“Of course not,” River snaps, liberating herself from Amy’s grip again. “We’ve only just met.”

 

Amy smirks. “Never stopped you before.”

 

River glares.

 

Tapping her foot, Amy presses eagerly, “Have you snogged him then?”

 

River sniffs, doing her best not to think of that soft, hazy moment in the quiet of her little flat. “No comment.”

 

Amy smiles broadly, clapping her hands. “That means yes.”

 

“It does not!”

 

“Did you seduce Benjamin our history professor?”

 

“Definitely no comment.”

 

“See?” Amy preens triumphantly. “Means yes.”

 

Despite their rather rocky start, dinner goes remarkably well. They all sit around the table on the patio in the garden, surrounded by candlelight and good food. John sits beside her, his hand brushing hers under the table even as he bonds with Amy over their Scottish heritage. It’s all terribly normal but she has a feeling normal is something John must crave in the life he leads.

 

River leans back in her chair and sips her wine, watching them all get along and silently thanking her friends for not making any more fuss over John. They don’t treat him like a celebrity but like a friend, welcoming him into their little fold as though he’s always been one of them. And John, for all of his cantankerousness, fits right in.

 

“Oh come, you can tell us.” Amy leans over her empty dessert plate, her cheeks flushed with good wine. “What does TARDIS mean?”

 

Rory snorts. “Amy, journalists and rabid fans have been trying to figure that out for decades. You really think he’s going to tell us?”

 

Amy pouts. “Why shouldn’t he? We’re best friends now and it’s my birthday.”

 

“She has a point, you know.” River eyes John over the rim of her glass, watching him grimace. Rory had been right when he said people have been trying to decipher the meaning of TARDIS for years, and John always has a different answer. _It means time_ , he tells a wide-eyed fan. It means _what the hell_ , he confides in a late night talk show host. It means _sod off and get that camera out of my face_ , he shouts at persistent reporters. “Unless of course even you don’t know.” She smirks in the face of his silently withering glare. “You poor thing, did you make it up to get attention?”

 

Amy snorts into her fifth glass of wine.

 

Lacing his hands together over his stomach, John leans back in his chair and runs his tongue over his teeth in contemplative silence. After a moment, he says, “I heard a story once about a city where time happened all at once. Imagine that… every moment of your life laid out around you. Streets full of buildings made of days.”

 

His voice is soft and almost hypnotic. River finds herself leaning forward, hanging on his every word. One glance at Amy and Rory reveals that they’re just as enthralled, watching John like he might hold the answer to things they hadn’t even thought to question before.

 

“The day you were born, the day you die. The day you fall in love.” His gaze locks on River’s briefly before skittering away again, fixating on his empty glass of scotch instead. “The day that love ends. A whole city built from triumph and heartbreak and boredom and laughter and cutting your nails. That’s what TARDIS means. It means _life_.”

 

He looks up again, his eyes finding River’s instantly. There’s such intensity in his gaze that she shies away from it, turning her head and clearing her throat. Across the table, Amy blinks rapidly. “Bloody hell. You do write your own songs, don’t you?”

 

John smirks.

 

“Hang on.” Rory holds up a hand, frowning. “That may be what TARDIS means but you still haven’t said what the letters stand for.”

 

“No,” John says simply, eyeing Rory appraisingly. “I haven’t.”

 

Amy huffs, reaching for more wine. “Keep your ruddy secrets then, Granddad. Any brownies left?”

 

Rory pushes the plate toward the middle of the table. “Just one. Shall we fight for it?” Though John looks puzzled, Amy and River smile. Rory nods. “Right then. Last brownie goes to the saddest act here. I’ll start.” He cracks his knuckles and settles into his chair, eyeing them all in turn. “I got passed over for a promotion today. Not because I’m not any good but because my supervisor is so intimidated by me that he’s afraid I’ll take his job. So I’m stuck where I am, monitoring patient charts and taking temperatures because I happen to be better than he is.”

 

Amy pats his arm in sympathy but River purses her lips. “Not that your supervisor isn’t a complete twat but unless I’m wrong, your menial job still pays rather well doesn’t it?”

 

Rory scowls, eyeing the last brownie. “…I guess.”

 

“My turn.” Amy takes another generous sip of wine, gulping half of her glass. River leans forward in her seat, exchanging a glance with Rory. Setting down her glass hard, Amy gives them all a tremulous smile. “We found out this week that I can’t have children. Ever.”

 

River draws in a sharp breath, barely conscious of John’s fingers brushing hers under the table. Rory looks away and Amy grits her teeth and keeps smiling. “Rory’s always wanted them, you know. I thought maybe I didn’t but… I think I really did.” She sniffles, shrugging. “We’re lucky, me and Rory. And we’re mostly really happy but… surely that deserves a brownie, yeah?”

 

Rory reaches out and squeezes her hand and the two of them exchange achingly sad, tender smiles. River is just about to concede, to get up and hug the stuffing out of her friend, but Rory glances up with a small smile and she knows. Rory has always been the quiet one, the overprotective one who disapproved of nearly everything she did but they’ve always been in agreement about one thing – take care of Amy, by whatever means necessary.

 

“I don’t know,” he says, still holding Amy’s hand. “Your new best friend is John Smith.”

 

Amy gives a wobbly laugh, her eyes bright. “That’s true. He _is_ obsessed with me.”

 

John snorts but says nothing, his expression unusually soft as he watches Amy struggle to pull herself together across the table.

 

“Besides,” Rory says, throwing River a wink. “Look at River. She owns a bookstore in a world full of kindles. She made the exceptionally stupid decision to sleep with her shop assistant who may be very pretty but also happens to be indescribably dull and who now won’t stop giving her moony eyes. She used to be the life of the party and now look at her – sitting here with us and hoping for a bit of chocolate. And of course she’s never going to hear from John again once he finds out her nickname in school was -”

 

“ _Rory_.”

 

“Mrs. Robinson.”

 

Amy laughs out loud and while John doesn’t crack a smile, his eyes crinkle with mirth and River knows he’s laughing without making a sound. She glares at them all but Amy is still giggling, the redness gone from her eyes. “Very true,” she says. “River is much more pathetic than us.”

 

River sighs, shrugging one shoulder. “I’d protest,” she says, reaching for the brownie. “But I’m winning.”

 

“Don’t I get a go then?”

 

Everyone turns to stare at John and he raises an eyebrow questioningly. Hand poised over her prize, River asks incredulously, “You think you deserve this brownie?”

 

John scowls. “I deserve to try at least before you devour the damn thing.”

 

Amy hiccups a laugh and River smirks, eyes narrowing. “You’ll have to prove your case. It’s a very good brownie, dear, and I’m not afraid to fight you for it.”

 

“Very well.” John taps his fingers against the edge of the table, a rhythmic beat that River suspects is one of his songs. One of his rings clinks against the wrought iron and when the cuff of his sleeve slips down his wrist, she catches a glimpse of black ink. “I’ve been an orphan since I was eight years old and an addict for half my life. Every move I make is splattered across every rag in the country as though my failures and heartaches are entertainment.”

 

He swallows, lifting a hand to brush a wild gray curl out of his eyes. “I’m a miserable sod who’s never quite managed to make a go of it with anyone, though I can’t blame them for not wanting to put up with me. One day, my dashingly rugged good looks will fade and everyone will discover I can’t play and I can’t sing and I’ll be just a lonely old man who looks quite a bit like someone who used to be famous once.”

 

For a long moment, no one says anything. Amy and Rory stare at him in silence and it seems even the evening breeze rustling the trees quiets. There’s a faint ringing in her ears but River watches John fidget and forces a smile. “Nice try, darling, but you’re not fooling anyone.”

 

John lifts his eyes to hers and smirks. “Worth a try.”

 

Amy breaks into laughter again and Rory pushes the plate toward River with a scolding, “Pathetic attempt to hog the brownie, mate.”

 

River claims her prize with a murmur of thanks but when Amy and Rory aren’t looking, she cuts the brownie in two and slips the other piece onto John’s plate.

 

-

 

Once they manage to escape a very tipsy Amy, it’s nearly midnight and they stumble out onto the pavement together. Hands in his pockets, John watches her with dark eyes. “Come to mine for a drink?”

 

Bathed in the glow of a street lamp, River gazes up at his quietly hopeful face and knows that if she agrees, there will be no going back. John Smith is not a man easily forgotten, least of all because his face is plastered absolutely bloody everywhere. It’s a terrible decision and she told herself she was done with those but she finds herself asking anyway, “Is that all you want?”

 

He sways toward her, the heat of him making her mouth water as he growls, “Not even close.”

 

John takes her hand and River lets him guide her away from quaint Notting Hill and into London proper. They don’t speak much on the walk to the Savoy, peaceful silence growing between them. John’s hand is warm and calloused in hers and when River thinks about those same clever, skillful hands undoing her blouse and tracing over her bare skin, she can scarcely breathe.

 

It’s been a long time since anyone has managed to render her quite so weak-kneed. Only a few days ago, she might have hated feeling so out of control but with John she finds herself wanting to relinquish it; wanting to let him hold her up in those wiry arms of his.

 

They cross the opulent hotel lobby together and step into a lift still holding hands. The doors slide shut and River’s heart feels lodged in her throat as she turns to him and John meets her halfway. His hands tangle roughly in her hair and when she tilts her face up, his mouth finds her with desperate hunger.

 

She sighs against his soft lips, pinned between the wall and him. John grips her to him, his knee wedged between her thighs the only thing keeping her upright. She digs her fingertips into the arms of his coat, sucking on his tongue until he groans and nudges his hips against hers. His hands tug at her hair and her stomach tightens, heat flooding through her.

 

Mind empty of all else but John’s rough hands and deep, searching kisses, River barely feels the lift jolt to a stop. John breathes harshly against her cheek, keeping her trapped between the wall and the delicious heat of his body. River wraps trembling hands around the collar of his coat, struggling to remember how to draw in oxygen.

 

“I’m an orphan too,” she whispers against his throat. “Since I was a baby.”

 

John tightens his grip around her waist and River feels his lips brush her temple. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting you.”

 

She whimpers, her palms on either side of his head as she tugs his mouth back to hers. John melts into her with ease, his teeth nipping sharply at her bottom lip. Her knees turn to jelly again and she curses under her breath, gripping him to her while John chuckles raggedly.

 

The lift doors slide open but they don’t separate, stumbling backwards out into the corridor. They don’t stop until they reach his door, blindly navigating the hall while their hands roam. It’s reckless and stupid and anyone could walk out of their room and see them but the thought of leaving his arms and his mouth seems like madness.

 

Standing outside his hotel room door, they lean into one another and try to catch their breath. Their noses brush and River’s eyes flutter. “John?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What does TARDIS stand for?”

 

His lips curve into a smile against the corner of her mouth. “It stands for Thinking About River Doing Inappropriate -”

 

She cuts him off with a laugh. “Shut up, John.”

 

He sighs, his lips tantalizingly close to hers now. “It means,” he whispers, his half-lidded eyes fixed on her mouth. “I’m about to ravish you, River Song.”

 

Her heart skips a beat but she only hums softly and teases, “Promises, promises.”

 

They stumble through the door of his room still wrapped around each other and as it shuts behind them, John pulls her toward his bed. She’s so lost in the slick slide of their mouths and the smoke clinging to his clothes and the hitch of his breathing when she strokes her tongue over the roof of his mouth that it takes her a moment to register the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

 

“Finally, you were ages. I was starting to fret.” They break apart instantly, mouths swollen and breathing heavy, and turn to find a petite brunette lounging on the bed with the television remote in her hand. Dressed in silk pajamas, she inspects her nails with a disinterested hum. “I started Call the Midwife without you.”

 

River stares at her, realizing with a flash that the woman is the pianist in John’s band. Rumors have been swirling for months that they’re carrying on some sort of illicit relationship off stage but she hadn’t paid the gossip much mind until now – faced with the other woman looking so comfy in John’s bed.

 

Missy glances up with a red-lipped pout. “And who’s this? New snack?”

 

Seething quietly, River yanks her hand from John’s tight grasp. Eyes wide, he shakes his head and reaches for her. “River -”

 

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, horrified to feel her eyes begin to sting. She turns away before he can see, starting for the door. “Bastard.”

 

The door slams behind her and she takes the stairs instead of the lift. It’s just after twelve-thirty in the morning when she slips out of the Savoy and makes her way back to Portobello Road, her heart heavy and John Smith’s face staring out at her from every other shop window she passes.


	3. baby you're like lightning in a bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no mistaking that Scottish growl and when she glances up, John is lurking in the doorway of the back room. Somehow, she hadn’t even heard the bell. And damn him, he looks good. Too good in that terrible hoodie and black jeans, those dark sunglasses of his nearly lost in the wild gray of his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an explanation, some fluff, and Ramone is scarred for life. 
> 
> Chapter title from Electric Love by BORNS. Song John is writing toward the end of the chapter is Sweet by Cigarettes After Sex.

Restoring first edition Dickens is a meticulous, time-consuming pain in the arse on a good day but today, River struggles to maintain what scraps of sanity she has left. Bent over her workbench, glasses slipping down the end of her nose and hair piled high on top of her head, she attempts to reattach the lose signatures to the text block with a needle and a bit of heinously expensive thread.

 

This part is always the worst but she’s feeling particularly impatient today, looking forward to getting out her tools and piecing together a whole new spine for the book. It’s work she can throw herself into. Work that will require every bit of her attention, leaving her no time to contemplate arsehole rock stars and their stupid eyes and stupid hands and stupid buggering –

 

“You’re allowed to touch Dickens with that mouth?”

 

River jumps, the book slipping from her grasp. There is no mistaking that Scottish growl and when she glances up, John is lurking in the doorway of the back room. Somehow, she hadn’t even heard the bell. And damn him, he looks good. _Too_ good in that terrible hoodie and black jeans, those dark sunglasses of his nearly lost in the wild gray of his hair.

 

Stiffening, she forces herself to look away. She picks up the book again and silently curses her unsteady hands. “I don’t want to see you.”

 

“Yes, I know.” He approaches her workbench anyway, the old hardwood floor creaking under his every cautious step. River grinds her teeth together and refuses to give him her attention, still acutely aware of his every move anyway. “You made that perfectly clear when you flounced out of my hotel room in a huff last night.”

 

She glares at the needle and thread clenched in her hands, watching out of the corner of her eye as John totally ignores her aggressively obvious body language to sod off. “I did not flounce. I have never flounced anywhere in my life, which is more than I can say for certain pretentious guitarists.”

 

The needle pierces her fingertip and River curses under her breath, popping her finger into her mouth. John leans against her workbench, watching her scowl at her abandoned project. “It’s not flouncing. It’s performing.” He smirks. “There’s a difference.”

 

River ignores him. “If I made myself so crystal bloody clear then what are you doing here?”

 

He shrugs, turning away to fiddle with the tattered, broken spine River had stripped from the Dickens novel this morning. “Hoping you’ll allow me to explain myself.”

 

She scowls, snatching the spine from him and tossing it into the rubbish bin under her workbench. “What is there to explain?”

 

John sighs, a bit of impatience finally slipping into his voice. “A whole fucking lot if you’ll hush and let me do it.”

 

Growling under her breath, River wrenches her glasses from the tip of her nose and finally looks at him for the first time since he trespassed into her workspace. He watches her with equal parts amusement and hope and though she’d had every intention of kicking him out, she snaps, “Well go on then. Better make it good.”

 

“Last night wasn’t what it looked like -”

 

“Oh, so you’re going with the classic excuse. Considering your profession, I expected a bit more creativity.”

 

“It’s true,” he grumbles, eyes narrowing. “Besides being a member of my band, Missy is a very old friend of mine. We were even in rehab together at one point.”

 

River blinks at him, startled out of her mood by his honesty. He hasn’t even mentioned that in his most candid interviews. Not that she’s read them.

 

“We’ve been through a lot of shit together,” he confides. “Sometimes our boundaries are a bit…askew as a result.”

 

River snorts, her heart pinching uncomfortably when she remembers the gorgeous woman huddled in John’s bed like she bloody well owned it.

 

“She’s a brilliant pianist, not half bad when I need her for vocals, and she might be the best friend I’ve ever had…” John pauses, ruffling his hair and nearly knocking his sunglasses to the floor in the process. He leans against the counter and meets her gaze steadily. She can’t bring herself to look away, as tangled up in him now as she’d been last night. “But it’s never been like that. It’d be like shagging my sister. Besides, she’s mad as a bag of wet cats.”

 

She stifles a bout of laughter, biting her lip.

 

John watches her imploringly. “I need you to believe me. I am not, have not, and will never be involved with Missy. Not like that.”

 

River swallows, the needle and thread hanging loosely from her numb fingers. She gravitates toward John, caught in his orbit once again. “Really?”

 

Some of the tightness around John’s eyes lessens, softening his gaze. He shifts away from the workbench, reaching for her hand and pulling her close. “I swear it,” he says, and River steps into him. “On my life, my guitar, whatever the fuck else you want -”

 

“Shut up, John,” she whispers, and leans up on her toes.

 

John groans in relief, his hand slipping down her back and tracing along her spine to press her close. Their mouths crash together and River is both relieved and terrified to find that the heat between them is the same as it had been the night before. Standing in the back room of her shop, surrounded by musty books, feels just as scorching and all consuming as it had when John was leading her to his bed.

 

She’s never felt anything like it before; as if she could happily allow the flames to lick at her until there’s nothing left but ash so long as John doesn’t stop touching her. Already, she’s developed a terrible habit of forgetting everything the moment he kisses her. His lips are soft and chapped and he tastes like brandy and cigarettes. All sense of reason leaves her entirely. All she can think of is getting more of him, of devouring him with her hands and her mouth. Of being devoured by him in turn.

 

John slips his hand beneath her shirt, his calloused fingers sliding hungrily across her abdomen, and River shudders. Tearing her mouth reluctantly from his, she lifts the shirt over her head with shaking hands and tosses it away. He stares at her, his eyes dark and his chest heaving.

 

“Beautiful,” he rumbles, reaching for her. His hands caress her bare skin, fingertips slipping delicately over her waist as though she’s a new instrument he’s learning to play. His mouth drops to her neck and River’s eyes flutter shut as he plants hot, wet kisses along her throat. “So fucking beautiful.”

 

She tips her head back, her whole body humming with pleasure. “You write your own lyrics and that’s the best you can come up with?”

 

John sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

 

She bites back a whimper, fumbling impatiently between them for the zip of his trousers while his tongue swirls across her clavicle and his teeth nip at her skin. John hisses when her hand brushes the bulge between his legs, his hands tightening around her hips and lifting her onto her workbench. With a murmur of approval, River opens her legs and he steps between them, his hands on her thighs.

 

His mouth finds hers again and she sighs in relief, her thoughts going fuzzy again as his tongue twines hungrily with hers. John nudges her back and River lets him press her into the table, pulling him with her. The books trapped beneath her dig into her spine but John’s fingers are tracing over her skin and his hot mouth leaves hers to suck at the swell of her breast. The last thing on her mind is a little discomfort.

 

Moaning, River squirms beneath him and threads her hands through his hair. “John-”

 

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his breath hot against her skin. “Name it, River, and it’s yours.”

 

He shoves aside the cup of her bra, his mouth finding her nipple and sucking mercilessly. River cries out, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist and her hips bucking against him. John thrusts against her in reply and her mind goes utterly blank. “You,” she moans, her hands clutching at him. “I want you.”

 

He traces his tongue between her breasts, his hand grasping a fistful of her curls. “You have me.” She sighs in bliss, her eyes slipping shut and one of her hands dropping to grip the workbench beneath her. John moves steadily above her and her whole body throbs. River bites her lip and rolls her hips, grinding on him until he presses his face into the crook of her neck and hisses, “Fucking hell, River…”

 

“ _Yess_.” She digs her heel into his backside, crying out when his erection lines up with the seam of her jeans and rubs deliciously against her clit. Heat engulfs her instantly and she gasps out loud, gripping his hair. “Oh god, honey – just like that.”

 

Breath warm and damp against her neck, John nips sharply at her collarbone with his teeth. His hips roll against hers, frantic and involuntary, like he can’t help himself. River moans in his ear, breathless and drawn out, and he curses. “Fuck, I can’t -”

 

“Don’t you dare stop,” she snarls, holding him firmly in place and undulating against him. He’s solid and hot and perfect against her core, even through layers of clothing and there’s suddenly nothing she wants more than for John Smith to come in his pants because of her. Because he wants her so much he can’t tear himself away long enough to unzip his trousers. The very thought is delicious and pressure burns in the pit of her stomach, a tantalizing, tingling swell that threatens to overwhelm her at any moment. “ _John_ -”

 

“River,” he breathes, his voice choked and his hands trembling against her hips. His ragged gasps fall in line with his thrusts, a beautiful, synchronous rhythm that makes her whole body tighten and sing. Her name falls from his lips like it’s all he can remember and she whimpers, undone by the notion. “River, River…”

 

“Oh my – _River_!”

 

They both jump at the scandalized gasp from the doorway, the heated moment shattered and their mutual release evaporating entirely as they scramble to sit up. Adorably, John moves to shield her body with his own but River is so dazed it takes her a moment to understand why. Ramone stands in the doorway, blushing furiously, his eyes fixed on the floor at his feet.

 

“Ramone,” she breathes. Her pulse races and despite the interruption, the heat between her legs is still aching to be taken care of. She struggles to think clearly, fumbling to pull her bra back down over her breasts and glancing around for her shirt. Scowling when she finds it all the way across the room, she clears her throat and crosses her arms over her chest. “I was… just taking my lunch break.”

 

John snorts.

 

She frowns, elbowing him sharply. He shows not a bit of remorse, ducking his head and pressing his lips against the curve of her neck. River melts, heat licking at her insides almost instantly, and curses her traitorous body for leaning into him hungrily.

 

Ramone sighs wearily, still not looking at them. “Do what - or _who_ \- you like in your free time, River, but honestly – at least spare the books.”

 

She winces, suddenly very aware of the book spine digging into her arse. Shifting she pulls it out from under her and allows John to take it. He looks terribly smug as he holds it aloft, eyeing the crumpled spine. “Might need a bit of TLC,” he says and tosses it at Ramone. “Our apologies to Mr. Dickens.”

 

Ramone catches the book, fumbling it only once, and grimaces.

 

-

 

Portobello Road, normally a fairly quiet city street, is teeming with people. The shop windows along the lane vibrate with the loud thump of music and the smell of foreign food fills the air. The very atmosphere seems to sparkle, glittering in celebration along with its occupants.

 

River’s favorite part of summer is the Notting Hill Carnival – what’s not to love about a three-day party, after all? But this year it’s particularly special, in part thanks to the idiot standing beside her and holding her hand, peering around like he expects to be bombarded at any moment. To be fair, a few people have clearly recognized him but the carnival is so full of life and distractions that even John can expect a bit of anonymity.

 

She glances around, taking in the bustling scene, and spots a drinks booth right beside Amy and Rory on the pavement. They’re sitting huddled together, sharing some fried plantains and snogging. River grins at them, abandoning John to skirt around them and snag two pineapple cocktails from the bar.

 

Returning to John, who hasn’t moved an inch in her absence, she presses a drink into his hand and says over the music, “Relax, darling. Your face is going to stick like that.”

 

His scowl only deeps as he inspects his drink, sniffing it suspiciously. “What’s wrong with my face?”

 

“It’s always so cross.” She wrinkles her nose, brushing teasingly against him. “Bit sexy.”

 

“You think everything’s sexy,” he grumbles, and takes a cautious sip of his drink. He swallows with a grimace and declares, “That’s fucking awful.”

 

River sighs, taking a purposeful sip of her own. “Shut up and drink it.”

 

To her delight, he does. John, she has discovered in the brief time they’ve been together, is ever so good at taking direction. Though he’s very bad at obeying without complaint. “Why do they always have to put fruit in everything? I’m against fruity drinks. Nothing wrong with a simple brandy.”

 

She stares at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. “My god, you’re old. I hadn’t realized until now.”

 

“Oi,” he snaps, tossing the rest of his drink into a nearby rubbish bin. “I’m plenty young. Rock and roll never ages.”

 

Humming in agreement, she teases, “No, just starts climbing into bed by nine-thirty.”

 

John huffs, his eyes narrowing in outrage. “I need eight hours, River. You know I’m impossible without it.”

 

River eyes him over the rim of her cup, taking a slow sip. “You’re impossible either way.”

 

He glares. “Well maybe you should bugger off and find another musician to suit your fancy.”

 

“And how do you know I haven’t already?” She asks, just to watch that lovely mouth thin with quiet rage. “I never said you were the only one.”

 

“I’d better be, River Song, or -”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “Or what?”

 

John growls and _oh_ she loves it when she incenses him enough to hear that. “Or I’ll write an extremely rude song about him and his small penis. And I’ll make certain it gets to number one on the charts so the whole world hears it.”

 

Laughing out loud, River sets aside the rest of her drink and strokes a hand soothingly over his chest. “Not to worry, darling. It’s just you for now.” She wrinkles her nose, tilting her head. “Until I get bored and move on to someone more exciting. Like an astronaut.”

 

Grumbling under his breath, John leans into her touch anyway and she’s amused to see his mouth already curling into a reluctant smile. “And when do you think that will be?”

 

River brushes her lips under his chin and murmurs, “I’ll let you know.”

 

“Tart,” he replies, and kisses her.

 

Wrapping an arm around his neck, River holds him close and tastes pineapple on his tongue. It’s been a week and while everything is still so new and exciting, it also feels rather old hat in the most wonderful way. It’s as if they’ve been holding hands and bickering their whole lives and she wonders as his hand cups her cheek if anything could be more perfect than this.

 

They break apart to watch the dancers go by, admiring their colorful costumes of sequins and feathers and glitter. It isn’t long before the powder paint makes an appearance, bright clouds of yellow and orange and blue bursting to life around them as people laugh and cry out.

 

Smiling widely, River drags John right into the middle of it. She expects more resistance or at least a bit of complaining but he grabs a handful of vibrant blue powder from a passing stranger and smears it through her hair with a manic grin on his face. River stares at him, torn between a gasp of outrage and a bout of giggles before eventually deciding retaliation is the best response.

 

She dives for more powder paint, dragging hands covered in pink down the sides of his face while John struggles in her arms and laughs. It’s a competition after that and they revel in it, ducking and weaving through the crowds armed with powder paint and determined to cover each other in it. Their shouts and laughter can be heard even over the music.

 

John finally catches up with her in the middle of Ladbroke Grove, catching her around the waist and smearing more powder across her sundress. They’re both breathing hard and still laughing, covered in enough paint to resemble a flag in a Pride parade.

 

River latches onto John’s orange-stained shirt collar and he dips his head, kissing her thoroughly. They stay wrapped around one another as the parade marches on by without them, swaying in the middle of the street to the tribal drumbeat.

 

Come morning, there’s powder paint all over her sheets and John rests his head on her stomach, checking his phone in the weak light of dawn. “We’re all over bloody Twitter,” he mutters, cursing under his breath.

 

Still half-asleep, River pauses in the middle of scratching her fingers through his hair and peers at his phone screen, catching a glimpse of them in the middle of street. John’s orange and blue handprints are all over her cotton sundress and both of them are clearly laughing into their kiss, bursts of color exploding in the air all around them.

 

“I want a copy of that,” she says, and closes her eyes again with a smile.

 

John huffs. “Do you have any idea the kind of fuss this is going to cause? I haven’t dated since -”

 

“Is that what we’re doing?” She blinks open her eyes and lifts her head from her pillow to stare at him.

 

He frowns. “Of course we are. What kind of sodding question is that?”

 

She shrugs, affecting a pout. “I don’t remember being asked, that’s all.”

 

“As if you’d say no,” he says smugly.

 

“I might have done,” she insists, if only to see him bristle. “If I’d known I was agreeing to date such a grumpy old man.”

 

“Bollocks.” He swallows a smile, tracing a fingertip around her bellybutton. “Could we please focus on bloody damned Twitter for a moment?”

 

Petting his hair, she murmurs tiredly, “Just lie low for a few days, darling. It’ll pass.”

 

He sighs, tossing aside his phone and lifting his head from her stomach to climb over her. He settles alongside her beneath the sheets, kissing her bare shoulder when she curls into him. “I could… stay here a bit longer.” He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at her. “If you don’t mind.”

 

 _You could stay forever_ , she thinks but doesn’t dare say. It’s enough that he’s been here for days already and that he’s asking to stay longer still. She can worry about the rest later. Smiling at the ceiling, River rests her head on his chest and agrees, “I suppose I could put up with you. Only for a few days, mind.”

 

-

 

From the outside, the Royal Opera House looks like a building of parliament, gray and solemn and with just enough _haut monde_ to make the commoners anxious. On the inside, however, it isn’t as starkly aristocratic as its exterior might make one believe. It’s warm and bright and there’s a frankly ridiculous amount of red carpet.

 

Arm looped through John’s, River stares at the glittering lobby and feels like a little girl again. The children’s home where she grew up had taken them all on a trip here once to see the Nutcracker at Christmastime and she’d been so mesmerized then – by the beautiful building and the graceful dancers and the lovely music. She’d been so small and everything had felt so magical.

 

“River?” She blinks, glancing away from a hanging light fixture overhead, and finds John watching her curiously. “All right?”

 

She smiles, reaching out and straightening his tie. “Perfect, darling. But are you sure about this?”

 

“Of course I’m sure.” He endures her fussing with his tie for another moment before he swats her away gently and takes her hand. “We’re going on a date like normal people, damn it.”

 

Stifling a smile, River pecks his cheek and allows him to lead her away from the lobby and into the theatre to their seats. For the last couple of weeks, he’s been determined to try dating her like a normal man might but John is not a normal man by any stretch of the imagination. Just last weekend they’d tried picnicking in the park and it had been a disaster. When they weren’t bombarded by fans, they’d been inundated with photographers lurking behind trees trying to sneak photographs of them feeding each other fruit.

 

They’d trended on Twitter for days.

 

Going to the ballet had been John’s idea and while she isn’t sure they’ll ever be able to date like an ordinary couple, River doesn’t have the heart to refuse him. So she’d slipped into a cocktail dress and her favorite heels, borrowed a strand of pearls from Amy, and let him take her out. So far, she isn’t regretting her decision but it’s still early yet.

 

“Stop being pessimistic,” John mutters under his breath, guiding her away from the crowd with a hand at the small of her back.

 

She frowns. “I haven’t said -”

 

“It’s audible anyway.” He smoothes his fingertips up her spine and she relaxes, leaning into him as the venture down a less crowded corridor. “It’s the ballet, River. Cameras aren’t allowed. Have a bit of faith in your old man, eh?”

 

“Cameras might not be allowed but they can’t take away mobiles, John.” She sighs, smiling faintly when he rolls his eyes. “I’m not the one who pitches a fit every time photos leak to the press. For someone who’s so old hat at all this, you’re always so surprised.”

 

“Not surprised,” he says, leading her up a set of stairs. “Just not complacent. The moment a complete lack of privacy stops bothering me, they’ve won. And I’m not letting those bastards win.”

 

“Hence the ballet,” she surmises fondly, shaking her head when he winks.

 

“Exactly.” Stopping in front of a stocky security guard posted outside a set of doors, John nods once and greets, “Strax. You’re looking especially bald this evening.”

 

River nudges him.

 

Strax looks nonplussed, offering John a smart salute. “Sir, you have my solemn oath that your romantic evening with your female compatriot will be uninterrupted barring unforeseeable circumstances such as terrorism or natural disasters.”

 

John lifts an eyebrow. “Even then, knock first.”

 

With another salute, Strax opens the door and steps aside, allowing them to walk past. Hand in hers, John leads River into the room and as the door shuts behind them, she realizes it isn’t really a room at all. It’s a private box with a perfect view of the stage and the orchestra pit. Instead of chairs, there’s a loveseat to share and a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice nearby.

 

River stares, an exasperated smile curling her lips. “Oh, you wanker.”

 

Standing beside her, John smirks. “They can’t photograph us if they can’t see us.”

 

Laughing brightly, she turns and latches onto the lapels of his coat, dragging him near enough to kiss. His mouth is warm and exuberant against hers, his hand caressing her hip. “You think you’re so clever,” she mumbles against his lips, and John chuckles. “And everyone always says you’re such a bad boy. You’re nothing but a romantic sod.”

 

John brushes a curl from her face when they part, his eyes soft. “I haven’t always been, you know. You… bring out my better nature.”

 

Fighting back the blush she feels heating her cheeks, River beams up at him. “I’m happy to take responsibility for anything that gets you into a suit.”

 

Nearly preening, he glances down at himself. “Better than the velvet?”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” she murmurs, finding herself inexplicably fond of that ridiculous magician’s coat. She licks her lips, meeting his dark gaze. “I’d like you in anything.”

 

“Or nothing,” he counters, grinning when she nods. She loves it when he smiles like that – his eyes crease and his nose crinkles and he shows all of his teeth, like he’s so happy he can’t control his face. “I don’t think I’m the only romantic sap on this balcony, River Song.”

 

She shakes her head, feeling almost bashful as she looks up at him. Honestly, _bashful_. Never in her wildest dreams did she ever imagine any man could wring such an innocent, girlish emotion from her. “I think you bring out my better nature too,” she admits softly, and that lovely smile of his returns.

 

As the music starts, John pours the champagne and they take their seats. The moment the dancers are onstage, River is captivated and can’t bring herself to look away – caught up in the very same magic that had so enchanted her as a little girl. For his part, John spends the majority of the show holding her hand and watching her reactions with a soft smile on his face.

 

River isn’t oblivious and she’d have to be completely blind not to see the way he looks at her – like he adores her, like she’s all of his favorite things wrapped up in a melody he wants to spend the rest of his life trying to get just right. Coming from anyone else, it would terrify her. It should terrify her anyway but it’s John and she feels that same adoration squeezing her chest every single time she looks at him and it isn’t scary at all. It hasn’t been long but she feels like – she _knows_ – she can trust this man. With her heart and her secrets. Everything.

 

It’s that same trust that allows her to lean her head on his shoulder during intermission and quietly admit, “The last time I was here, I was six years old. The children’s home where I lived brought us to see the Nutcracker. I remember looking up at the stage and feeling so… small.”

 

John says nothing, turning his head and pressing his lips firmly against the top of her head. River squeezes his fingers gratefully.

 

“They were all so beautiful and so graceful and I was just this raggedy little orphan in clothes that didn’t even fit.” She smiles faintly in remembrance, closing her eyes. “But during that show, it didn’t matter. I could sit there in the dark and pretend I was one of them - strong and graceful and worthy of admiration.”

 

“You were,” he whispers, his lips feather light against her hairline. “You are.”

 

As intermission comes to a close and the curtain rises once more, the music swells around them and John takes her hand. Rising to his feet, he pulls her gently with him and tugs her into his arms. Puzzled but unable to resist him, River lets him gather her close and it’s only when he starts to lead her around the balcony in a slow, careful dance that she realizes what he’s doing.

 

“I’m not a little orphan girl any more, John,” she says, but she doesn’t step out of his arms. She grips his hand and tips her head back to gaze fondly up at him.

 

“Maybe not, but you’re still the loveliest ballerina here.” His lips curl into a soft grin and whatever pieces of her heart she’s been selfishly keeping from him in a desperate attempt at self-preservation slip between the cracks of her fingers and tuck themselves away into his pocket, nestled safely alongside his handkerchief.

 

-

 

She can hear the soft strains of the guitar halfway up the stairs and she pauses with her hand on the railing to listen, a tired smile curling her mouth. Most of the day has been spent on the phone haggling with an auction house willing to supply her with rare, crumbling books for the price of a small island. Her back aches from bending over her workbench and poor Ramone still can’t bring himself to look her in the eye.

 

It’s been a tedious day full of small annoyances but as she stands on the creaking steps leading to her flat, listening to John’s gruff, quiet voice testing the lyrics of a new song it’s easy to forget all that. _“And I will gladly break it, I will gladly break my heart for you…”_

 

She slips into her flat quietly, reluctant to interrupt, and sets her things on the table by the door. John sits in his favorite spot at the window, a guitar and a pad of paper balanced on his knees. He stops mid-verse, grumbles to himself, and reaches for the pencil tucked behind his ear. He scratches out something, scribbles a note in the margin, and strums an experimental chord.

 

River leans against the doorway, watching him furrow his brow.

 

His band isn’t touring at the moment and they’re between albums, which means he’s mostly in London to make a few quick appearances and work on his music. With such little responsibility on his hands, he’s taken to spending most of his time at her flat. With every day that passes, River grows less terrified of how perfectly at home he looks padding barefoot around her place.

 

She’s already begun to get used to hearing the quiet strum of his guitar in the middle of the night when John wakes up from a dream inspired. She’s used to seeing a bottle of brandy alongside her usual wine in the kitchen; to his arm around her waist and his face pressed into her hair in the mornings; to finding random bits of paper with half-finished verses on the coffee table, between the sofa cushions, and sometimes on the fogged up mirror in the bathroom after he showers.

 

On weekends, they browse the Portobello Street Market – John in dark sunglasses that do nothing to hide his identity – and have dinner with Amy and Rory. Sometimes they even have drinks with John’s bandmates Bill and Missy and his long-suffering manager Nardole.

 

In her free time, River works on her manuscript and John reads over her shoulder, making suggestions like _you know what this book is missing? a scary handsome musician_ and _have you not noticed that gaping plot hole or is this all part of the plan?_ until she banishes him to another room. They watch crap telly in the evenings and on nights when Missy doesn’t insist on coming over to watch Call the Midwife with John, they go to bed early so River can trace her tongue over the ink on his skin in the dark.

 

For weeks they’ve been cocooned in their little bubble of perfection, fitting together like they’ve just been waiting all this time to find each other. It can’t possibly last. Nothing this good ever does. The bubble will pop sooner or later but River cups her hands around their fleeting happiness anyway, determined to protect it for as long as she can.

 

“Are you planning to stand there and admire me from afar all night?” John glances up, gray curls slipping into his eyes, and smirks. “Because this isn’t even my good side.”

 

River rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe. “You have a good side?” She asks, watching him set aside his guitar as she approaches. “Why haven’t you ever shown me?” He snorts, reaching for her hand the moment she’s close enough. River twines their fingers together and bends her head, pressing her lips against the top of his head. “Write anything good today?”

 

John kisses her palm. “Rubbish. You?”

 

“A bit during a lull.” She nudges him gently, gesturing to the guitar at his side and the pad of paper he’s trying to shield from her. “What I heard didn’t sound like rubbish.”

 

He hums noncommittally, edging the paper further away from her.

 

River smiles into his hair. “What was it?”

 

“None of your business.” He kisses her palm again, nipping sharply at her wrist. “Tell me what you wrote today.”

 

“You first.” At his scowl, her smile grows and not even biting her lip will stifle it. “Are you writing a song about me, John Smith?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

His mouth is still pressed reverently against her pulse point and she knows he means _yes of course_. River slips her hand from his and cups his cheek in her palm, her heart swelling in her chest when he leans into the touch instantly. “Care for a bit of inspiration?”

 

His eyes flutter open, blue and interested. She raises an eyebrow. Lips curling up into a slow smile, he agrees, “Aye, I could use a wee bit.”

 

They stumble to the bedroom, scattering clothes and bits of half-written verses in their wake. River straddles his waist and teases them both until John growls with impatience and pins her to the mattress. She wraps herself around him, eager and hungry and feeling far too much, her trembling fingertips tracing the storm cloud tattoo on his shoulder over and over again.

 

John grips her thighs in his strong clever hands and presses inside her, uttering her name in a lilting plea. He makes love to her like he’s been waiting to for hours, weeks, months, years. His kisses burn, scorching temporary marks into her skin and permanent ones across her heart. He mutters filthy obscenities in her ear, telling her how gorgeous she looks spread out beneath him, how tight she feels when she squeezes around him, how much he _craves_ her – always – until everything narrows and builds and nothing in the world exists but John and the mounting ache between her thighs. When she comes with a sharp cry and her toes curled into the sheets, John isn’t far behind. He stiffens against her, his hands buried in her hair and an unwritten love song on the tip of his tongue, pressed into her mouth like a secret.

 

They cling to each other in the fading light of day, trading breathless, grinning kisses. John counts the freckles scattered across her chest and insists he needs _just a wee bit more inspiration, my dear_. She laughs and hits him with a pillow. Outside her little flat, the world carries on but River and her musician remain inside their fragile bubble, safe and protected for another day.


	4. some kind of wrecking ball we turned out to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> River bites her lip, watching with an odd mixture of warmth and guilt as John does his best to defend her from the very thing he’d asked her not to do. He’d known this would happen and he’d tried to stop her but she’d been too wrapped up in the ferocity of her own temper to listen. She stares at the tense line of his shoulders and the grim line of his mouth and in the back of her mind, she hears that fragile, protective bubble burst – leaving them in the cold grip of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which paparazzi are trash and there's a fight. Or two. 
> 
> Chapter title from This Is On Me by Ben Abraham and Sara Bareilles. Songs mentioned in this chapter are Girl Is On My Mind by the Black Keys and Lover Please Stay by Nothing But Thieves.

River hasn’t been to a proper nightclub since Amy’s birthday last year and even that had been under duress. Her younger self would have been horrified to discover that these days she tends to prefer classier fare than seedy dives and dark clubs that smell of sweat. To her relief, John has even more disdain for them than she does. She hadn’t been expecting that but apparently his wilder days are behind him as well. Unfortunately for both of them, John’s young drummer Bill is still in the middle of her wild youth and neither of them are capable of refusing her anything.

 

In the past few months she and John have been together, River has gotten to know his bandmates rather well and Bill has become a bit of a soft spot. The young girl reminds her of herself in a way, though quite a bit more well-behaved than she’d ever been. Even River hadn’t been able to say no when she’d insisted on a night out, dragging them all with her.

 

She’s currently somewhere on the dance floor, surrounded by a group of gorgeous young women and as always, adorably startled by the attention. “One day,” River had said, “that girl will realize what a catch she is and there’ll be no stopping her.” John had grumbled like an overprotective father and she’d laughed, forcing him onto the dance floor too.

 

The song blasting through the speakers is fast and full of thumping bass but as everyone around them writhes and grinds, John insists on a proper dance – one of his hands in hers and the other on her hip, keeping her close. They sway together, John pressing fleeting kisses along her crown and murmuring the words to an old song into her hair.

 

Over the music, she can hear Bill laughing and somewhere in this club, Nardole is following Missy around while she hunts down some “respectable swill”, trying desperately to keep her out of trouble and by extension, out of the papers. Utterly content, River leans against John’s chest and closes her eyes, smiling into the lapel of his velvet coat.

 

“You know,” John begins, and he sounds surprisingly relaxed for a man who hates socializing. Probably because the club Bill had chosen is so dark no one has been close enough to recognize him yet. “I met her once.”

 

It takes her a moment to realize he’s talking about the woman whose voice is blaring over the speakers and when she does, she lifts her head from his chest. “You’ve met Cleo?”

 

He looks smug. “She fancied me.”

 

River pats his chest. “I’m sure she did, honey.”

 

“She did,” he insists, frowning. “Even told me her deepest, darkest secret. That isn’t actually her voice. It’s a middle-aged housewife from Wiltshire who wanted to sing but didn’t want the fame. She’s a recluse, you see.”

 

River stares at him. “Are you telling me Cleo is faking it?”

 

“Every word.” John grins down at her, looking terribly pleased with himself. “Trick of the trade, unfortunately.”

 

“Oh?” She traces a fingertip down his shirt buttons, enjoying the slight catch she hears in his breathing. Peering at him through her lashes, she asks, “And have you ever faked it, darling?”

 

“I’ve never had to fake a damn thing, River Song, as you well know.” He bends his head, nipping at her bottom lip as she laughs and squirms in his arms, struggling to get away. He refuses to let her escape, his grin wide against her mouth as he kisses her properly. River hums, hands curling around his lapels as she tugs him blindly from the dance floor.

 

“Table,” she mutters against his lips, and he nods, his arm tightening around her waist. They bump into people on their way through the dark club but they never let go of each other, pushing their way through the crowd until they reach their booth at the very back – perfect for hiding if one happens to be a celebrity and even more perfect for snogging in private if one happens to be feeling adventurous.

 

Being with John makes her feel more adventurous than she has in years and she relishes his soft growl when they tumble into their booth and she climbs onto his lap. She settles against him with a slow, torturous roll of her hips that makes him shudder and sink his teeth into her lip. The increasingly apparent bulge in his trousers presses right against her core and River barely catches the moan before it leaves her mouth, her eyes fluttering shut. They’re surrounded by people who would go absolutely mad if they knew he was here, and yet they’re utterly invisible.

 

She could really learn to like clubs again.

 

John tears his mouth away from hers to catch his breath, gasping raggedly against her throat. His hands slip from her hips and down, squeezing her arse. She bites back a laugh, raking her fingers through his hair. He tips his head back up, pressing a fleeting kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Going to miss me then?”

 

The question instantly turns her stomach to knots. Ever since he told her he’d be flying to the States for a few weeks, she’s had the terrible feeling that their perfect little bubble is about to pop. It had been a reminder that he won’t always be in London. There will be tours where he’ll be gone for months on end, photo shoots and television appearances. It’s already started.

 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, River shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

 

“You _are_ going to miss me.” He smirks and she wants to slap him but he brushes his lips across her cheek and sighs. “It’s only a few interviews and photos for a magazine spread. I’ll be back as soon as I can escape, dear.”

 

_And what about when you can’t return so soon?_ She wants to ask. _What happens when you’re gone for half the year and women are throwing themselves at you every night and being away from each other all the time is just too difficult?_

 

She forces a smile, tossing her hair with a shrug. “You’d better. If you’re gone too terribly long I’ll forget all about you and find another handsome musician to warm my bed.”

 

His brows lift and that smug smirk only deepens. “You think I’m handsome?”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

She takes his dear, ridiculous face in her hands and kisses him quiet just to be sure. John sighs into her mouth, his tongue twining sinuously with hers until all she can taste is the whiskey he’s been drinking tonight. His hands tighten their grip on her arse in an effort to tug her closer, as if pressed chest-to-chest isn’t nearly enough, and his mouth slants hungrily against hers until she feels thoroughly devoured.

 

A loud _clunk_ startles them both apart and they turn together just in time to see Missy slide into the seat across from them, smiling like the cat who ate the canary. John’s eyes narrow in on the reason for that grin instantly – the tall bottle of A.H. Hirsch Reserve she’d plonked on the table.

 

“Where did you get that?” He frowns, looking more like a disapproving father than a rock star known to break every rule in the book. “That’s a thousand bloody pounds in a bottle and they don’t even produce it anymore. Did you steal it?”

 

“Course not.” Missy inspects a chipped red nail, pointedly avoiding his gaze. “I was just… inspecting the storage room, as you do, and found it languishing in the dark.” She directs a look of wide-eyed innocence at John, who remains unmoved. “I liberated it from a life of confinement, honey. I brought it into the light to be admired. To fulfill its true purpose.”

 

“You stole it,” John decides.

 

Missy huffs a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “Yes, I bloody stole it. Now piss off, goody two shoes, and have a drink.”

 

Grumbling under his breath about another column in the _Mirror_ , John uncorks the bottle and doesn’t bother with a glass. He sips the bourbon directly from the source, passing it to Missy when he’s through with a grudging nod of thanks. She salutes him mockingly and relaxes into the booth with her feet up, lounging with the bottle pressed to her chest like a beloved teddy bear.

 

In the time they’ve spent together, Missy has gotten quite good at ignoring John and River when she needs to. She doesn’t even glance at them as they return their attention to one another, John’s hand in her hair and his mouth seeking out hers. He tastes like very expensive whiskey now and River shifts on his lap, licking the rich flavor of oak and spice from the roof of his mouth.

 

A new song begins to filter through the speakers and when Missy hums with delight, River recognizes it as one that belongs to TARDIS – sped up and played with a techno beat to appease the people who had come here to dance. John grumbles against her mouth about bastardization and River laughs, patting his cheek in sympathy.

 

_Hold me close to you_

_Not one thing that I_

_Would not do if you_

_Hold me close to you_

 

From the booth next to theirs, someone shouts, “Ooh, I love this one!”

 

“Really? I think his old stuff is much better than his new rubbish.”

 

The confession is met with a disbelieving giggle. “He was on drugs when he wrote the old stuff, Brittany.”

 

“Well he should start again, _Natalie_ , because when he detoxed all his talent went with it.”

 

Across the table, Missy stifles a snort. John rolls his eyes, inclining his head as he listens to the table next to theirs gossip about him – totally oblivious that the man himself is so near.

 

“Who the hell cares about his talent? He’s a fox. A _silver_ fox.”

 

“Ugh, stop it Nat.”

 

“Oh come on, Britt. He’s dreamy and you know it.” Natalie shudders. “Filthy mouth on him.”

 

Looking pleased, John waggles his brows and leers at River. She purses her lips against a smile, wondering how he manages to remain so blasé in the face of such blatant nastiness. Whatever the media says about his temper, they’re clearly exaggerating – the man has the patience of a continent and the thick skin of an elephant. She settles herself comfortably against his chest, her admiration for her lovely idiot only growing as the conversation beside them carries on.

 

Brittany scoffs. “You want to lust after the granddad of rock and roll, fine. Just don’t shag him unless you want every STD known to man.”

 

This time, it’s Missy who rolls her eyes dismissively and John falters for the first time, scowling. River stifles a sudden spark of fury, steeling herself against the ever-present but long dormant desire to kick some arse. It’s been a long time since she lowered herself to a brawl in a bar but if _Nat and Britt_ don’t move on to another topic soon, she might consider revisiting the habit.

 

“Worth it,” Natalie sighs, apparently lost in some fantasy. “He seems like the type to hold you down and fuck you good and proper.”

 

Anger still burning low and vicious in her gut, River forces a smirk and makes a soft noise of agreement, kissing John’s cheek gently. He preens. Across the table, Missy sticks a finger in her mouth and mimes vomiting all over the table.

 

Brittany laughs. “Do you have any idea where that man’s cock has probably been? He’s a rock star, Nat. Probably puts it in fifteen year old groupies.”

 

Settled against his chest, River feels the moment John stiffens, going completely still beneath her. She grinds her teeth together, listening to Natalie laugh incredulously.

 

“I’m serious,” Brittany insists. “I heard he likes them prepubescent. All hairless and full of energy. Probably part of his rehab program – learning to control the urge to fuck little -”

 

Missy slams a clenched fist against the table to drown them out but River is the one to see the look on John’s face – his eyes hard and his jaw clenched – and feels that low-burning anger swelter into roaring flames. It curls furiously around her heart and she’s pushing away from John and climbing out of the booth before she can stop to think about what she’s doing.

 

John reaches for her hand, his eyes widening. “River, don’t -”

 

She shakes him off, eyes narrowed and heart pounding dangerously in her ears. John slumps in the booth and doesn’t try to follow but Missy scrambles after her, still clutching her prized whiskey.

 

Stopping in front of the little bints, River plants her palms flat on their table and waits for them to look up. “Hello.” She smiles, wide and dangerous. “I couldn’t help but overhear your disgusting conversation and I just wanted to give you a chance to shut up before I decide to wipe the floor with you.”

 

The blonde stares at her, lips parted in shock, before a scowl settles over her face, and it’s instantly clear that this one is Brittany. “And who the hell are you?”

 

River leans in close, looming over them. “I’m the woman he’s currently ‘fucking good and proper’. And if you say one more word about that man, I’ll deck you so hard your grandchildren will invent time travel just to come back and stop me.” She smiles at them again, sharp-toothed and full of promise. “And then I’ll give you to her.” Over her shoulder, Missy hovers like a rabid dog waiting to be unleashed. “Are we clear, sweetheart?”

 

Blushing furiously, Natalie murmurs, “Sorry, I -”

 

“You don’t need to apologize, Nat,” Brittany snaps, glowering at River. “That was a private conversation.”

 

River’s fists clench and Missy snarls in her ear, “Do it.”

 

She’s barely managing to reign in her old instincts when the girl stands from her seat, standing toe to toe with River. Brittany meets her stare head on and in her dark eyes, River sees every youthful, stupid impulse she’d purged herself of a long time ago. Her nails dig into her palms, waiting.

 

“Are you wrapping his dick before you sit on it? Because it’s been inside every groupie and back alley prostitute from here to Hong Kong. I’d hate for you to contract something.”

 

River smiles and punches her.

 

Behind her, Missy whoops with delight and they watch with matching satisfied smirks as Brittany hits the floor like a sack of bricks. As River shakes out her hand, Missy upends her precious bottle of whiskey, dousing Brittany’s blonde head with very expensive alcohol. She pats her pockets, peering around with a frown. “Anyone got a match?”

 

River lays a quelling hand on her arm, watching Natalie rush to help her bleeding friend. “I wouldn’t bother, if I were you. I’m just going to hit her again the moment she stands.”

 

“Down, girl.”

 

She feels John at her back, his hands settling on her hips in an effort to restrain her. She elbows him with a growl. “Not now, sweetie. I’m busy.”

 

He sighs patiently and before she can take another step forward, his grip on her tightens and he actually _picks her up_. Dangling upside down over his shoulder, River blinks at the floor and tries to decide if she’s infuriated or turned on by the unexpected show of strength. Perhaps a bit of both, she decides, and pinches him.

 

He swats at her with a curse. “Behave.”

 

“Or what?” She asks, wriggling in his grip. “You’ll spank me?”

 

“Yes,” he growls out, and slaps her thigh for emphasis. River bites her lip, the hot fury boiling her blood giving way to something else – slow and heavy, unspooling through her like warm molasses. She shudders and John digs his fingers into her leg, turning his attention to the two women kneeling on the floor, gaping up at him. “Hello. John Smith. Apologies for my… River. She’s a wee bit overprotective.”

 

River huffs and John pinches her leg.

 

“No, we’re sorry,” Natalie sputters. Beside her, Brittany nods wordlessly. “We were just -”

 

John smiles thinly. “Oh, I know exactly what you were doing. And please, the next time I do a show in London, consider yourselves uninvited and feel free to go fuck yourselves instead.”

 

River smothers a snort of laughter in a cough.

 

“Hush, you,” John murmurs, and though she can’t see him, she can hear the smile in his voice well enough. “Excuse me, ladies. The night is young and I still haven’t fucked every consenting adult along the southern border. Lovely meeting you.”

 

Leaving them gaping on the floor, he turns on his heel and carries River with him. Missy finally locates a match in her pocket but he snags her wrist, yanking her away before she can strike it.

 

-

 

By mid-afternoon the following day, the whole incident is trending on Twitter under #BitchesGetStitches. There are headlines on the front page of every single online news site ranging from “TARDIS Tiff Invokes Outrage” to “The First Rule of Fight Club: Don’t Piss off John Smith’s Girlfriend” and from the ones River dares to scan, few are complimentary.

 

Curled into the corner of her sofa, mobile clutched in her hand, she watches John pace the length of her little flat, stalking from one end to the other and talking in a low, irritated growl. He’s on a conference call with Nardole and his publicist – an irate young woman called Clara who insists on releasing a statement and public apology. Unsurprisingly, John refuses.

 

“It wasn’t fucking unprovoked assault, for fuck’s sake. That bint started it -” John pauses, scowling. “No, she didn’t swing first but – Clara, it’s not – _shut up_ , Nardole.” He clenches his jaw, glaring at the floor as he listens to whoever is currently scolding him on the other line. “Do you have any idea what they were saying? She had every right-”

 

River bites her lip, watching with an odd mixture of warmth and guilt as John does his best to defend her from the very thing he’d asked her not to do. He’d known this would happen and he’d tried to stop her but she’d been too wrapped up in the ferocity of her own temper to listen. She stares at the tense line of his shoulders and the grim line of his mouth and in the back of her mind, she hears that fragile, protective bubble burst – leaving them in the cold grip of reality.

 

“You want to know what you can tell them? I’ll tell you what you can say to the fucking viper pit,” John snaps, cheeks flushing with anger. “You can tell them River and Missy were defending someone they care about. You can tell them I’ll never condemn them for it. You can tell them we’re the ones waiting for a bloody apology and they can reach us at 1-800-Kiss-My-Arse.”

 

With that, John takes the phone from his ear and jabs the _end call_ button with his fingertip, tossing it carelessly onto the coffee table. With a sigh, he collapses onto the sofa beside River and slumps into the cushions with all the rebellion of a grounded teenager. She watches him uncertainly, wanting to reach for him but not sure it would be welcome at the moment. They’re in this mess because of her, after all.

 

Eyes shut and one hand scrubbing tiredly over his eyes, John extends an arm toward her in invitation and River feels relief flood through her, uncurling from her end of the sofa to nestle into his side. He wraps an arm around her waist, hugging her close, and River drops her head to his chest.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, grimacing. “Usually my reckless disregard for my own well-being never affects anyone but me. And hearing them speak about you like that...” She sighs, huffing a curl out of her eyes. “I was just so angry. It never occurred to me that it might hurt you.”

 

John shakes his head and when River glances up at him, his gaze is far away and troubled. “I love that you tried. No one’s ever…” His eyes flicker and he reaches for her hand, inspecting her bruised knuckles. Eyes growing wet, he swallows and bends his head, brushing his lips over her fingers. “Thank you. For defending my honor.”

 

River smiles, wondering how she had ever thought this tenderhearted, lovable idiot could be anything less. She squeezes his fingers and murmurs, “Any time, darling.”

 

Clearing his throat, he laces their fingers together and avoids her gaze. “Besides, I’m the one who should be sorry. Things are going to get worse from here. The press is like a dog with a damned juicy bone.”

 

The unease from before, all but forgotten the moment John tugged her into his arms, comes roaring back now and River feels her chest tighten. “We’ll be all right, won’t we?”

 

John forces a smile. “Course we will.” She can see the hesitation lurking in his eyes and the firm line of his mouth and she waits patiently until he huffs and begins, “What those women were saying… it isn’t true.” He fidgets, entirely uncharacteristic for this man who blazes through life without apology. “I know people talk and I rarely address rumors but I haven’t -” He ducks his head and peers at her through his lashes, promptly swelling her heart to twice its size with one glance as he promises, “I’m not that man.”

 

“Of course you’re not.” River twists in his arms to look at him properly, taking his dear face in her hands and looking him in the eye. She feels her own begin to sting and she blinks hard, swallowing. “I knew ten minutes after I met you that you were so much more than those people would have everyone believe. You’re so much better, John. So much kinder.”

 

John stares at her, his expression impossibly soft and so warm that it feels like sunlight against her skin. “River,” he breathes. “I-”

 

“I know.” She presses her forehead to his and smiles. “Me too.”

 

-

 

**Rock Legend John Smith's Bae: (Former?) Delinquent**

 

_The salacious details of the life of River Song, current girlfriend of TARDIS lead singer and guitarist John Smith, just keep coming. This week alone, we’ve learned that she was orphaned as a baby and grew up in a children’s home, which has since been shut down for neglect and abuse. Now sources are saying she also has a criminal record. According to our unnamed but reliable informants, John Smith’s ladylove spent two years in a juvenile detention center for vandalism, simple assault, and grand theft auto. Those familiar with John Smith’s youthful indiscretions might say the pair is a match made in heaven – or hell._

 

With a grumble of disgust, Rory wads up the entertainment section of The Daily Telegraph and stuffs it into the rubbish bin. It’s the latest in a long line of sensationalistic investigative journalism picking apart River’s past with a fine-toothed comb in an effort to discover everything there is to know about John Smith’s violence-happy girlfriend. River has taken it all in stride but her friends have been less forgiving.

 

“What a bunch of pricks,” Amy gripes, scowling. She reaches for River’s hand and squeezes in a sweet but unnecessary show of solidarity. “Don’t they have anything better to talk about?”

 

River throws Rory a grateful glance when he places a steaming mug of tea in front of her. Wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic, she shrugs. “I’m the most interesting bit of gossip they have at the moment. John assures me someone else will do something scandalous soon and they’ll forget all about us.”

 

She can only hope that time arrives sooner rather than later. While she puts on a brave face for John and her friends, it isn’t easy having her tragic childhood and misspent youth dragged out of the dark for public inspection when she’s worked so bloody hard to put it behind her. And having the press make camp outside her shop and hound her when she does something as mundane as make a trip to the corner store for milk is well past tiresome.

 

If John were here, he’d have punched a photographer and scared them all off by now but he’s still doing a press junket in the States and her fists are what got her into this mess so River doesn’t dare try it herself. Not that she cares what they print about her but John has been through enough. She’ll behave – for him.

 

Taking a slow sip of her tea, River breathes in the soothing chamomile steam and sighs. “Thank you both for letting me hide out here for a few days. Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble?”

 

Amy scoffs. “Course not, numpty. Not like it’s the first time you’ve crashed on our sofa.” She frowns, folding her arms across her chest and eyeing River worriedly. “I just hate this for you. You’ve worked so hard to get your life together and these people are just talking about the bad stuff like it’s all that matters. Like that’s all you are. Can’t John do _anything_?”

 

River shakes her head. “Like what? The press is free to print whatever they like.”

 

She doesn’t mention that every night when John calls her from the States before bed, he rails against the press and swears he’ll sue the bloody pants off every single one of them when he gets back. He’s already canceled interviews with every news outlet that has printed something disagreeable about River, hoping the rest might get the message and fall in line. River always reassures him, smiling into her phone and picturing his cross eyebrows softening when she whispers, _“I don’t need a lawsuit, John. Just you.”_

_“Well,”_ he’d grumbled, embarrassed and besotted. _“You’ve got me.”_

 

Staring into her tea, River shoves aside the ache in her chest. She misses the idiot like mad but there’ll be time to pine later, curled up in her bed alone. “I’m fine, Amy,” she says, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

 

Still frowning, Amy leans into Rory’s side. “I certainly couldn’t if I were you. Everybody in the world knowing everything about me and judging me without even really knowing me?” She shudders, shaking her head. And then like a switch has been flipped, she smiles suddenly, wide and mischievous. “You must _really_ like him, huh?”

 

River stifles a smile and kicks her beneath the kitchen table. “Oh, shut up.”

 

-

 

“Tell me the truth – how much are you missing me?” On her mobile screen, John waggles his eyebrows, smirking. “You’re wasting away, aren’t you?”

 

River rolls her eyes, sinking onto her sofa and drawing her legs up, balancing her phone on her knees. “Actually, with you out of the way I’ve been able to free up a lot of my time. I never realized how high maintenance you are.”

 

“And just what are you doing with all this free time?” John asks, his eyes drifting somewhere off screen. He scowls and River only has to wonder who he’s looking at for a moment before he snaps, “For fuck’s sake Missy – at least use a spoon.”

 

“You’re tetchy. Talking to your ickle wife then?”

 

Hiding a smile behind her hand, River watches John blush and glare at his best mate. “Actually, I was about to ask her to take off her shirt so if you could bugger off -”

 

“All right, dirty granddad. Have a wank and toddle off to bed like a _good_ little kept pet.” She throws her spoon and it whacks John in the chest. “Bill and I are going out.”

 

“Well I’ll keep the light on for you,” he grumbles, and swats at her when she wanders by making obnoxious kissy noises.

 

Waving over her shoulder, Missy calls, “Night-night, romantic subplot.”

 

“Always a pleasure, Missy,” River murmurs, watching in amusement as the other woman gathers her coat and skips out the door, slamming it shut behind her. “I can’t believe I thought you were shagging her.”

 

John scrubs a hand over his face and peeks at her through his fingers. “Don’t remind me.”

 

She snorts, picking up her phone and tracing her fingertip over his cheek. “Someone sent me a box of old books to restore and I found something you might like. An entire collection of Scottish poets in three volumes. They’ll be beautiful once I’m finished.”

 

Smiling wearily, he says, “Nick them for me, would you?”

 

“Might do,” she promises, refusing to admit she’d already bought them from their original owner and plans to restore them in lovely red leather covers to give him for Christmas. It seems a bit serious to plan that far ahead and she doesn’t want to spook him, though looking at him watching her so fondly she wonders if he might be doing a bit of planning himself.

 

“You never said,” he reminds her softly, stifling a yawn. “What are you doing with all your new free time?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, wasn’t it obvious?” She smirks. “Shagging lots and lots of other people, of course.”

 

John scowls, clearly unamused.

 

“But don’t worry, darling,” she teases, just to see him glare. “It’s only because I miss you so terribly.”

 

“Oh,” he says, relaxing. “That’s all right then.”

 

For a moment, neither of them speaks and they just sit there grinning at each other like idiots. John looks tired and while the hotel room behind him looks perfectly lavish, it also looks cold and impersonal and she’d much rather have him here – sprawled out on her sofa with her, humming in her ear. “I do, you know,” she admits. “Miss you.”

 

“Me too,” he murmurs, his eyes soft. “Fucking torture being away from you.”

 

She smiles, her heart swelling at the clear longing in his voice. “Is it?”

 

John grunts unhappily. “You’ve ruined me.”

 

Leaning back into her sofa cushions, she promises huskily, “Hurry home and I’ll ruin you some more.”

 

“Looking forward to it.” He grins, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Now take off your shirt.”

 

River laughs. “You first, darling.”

 

-

 

The day John is due to arrive at Heathrow and take a cab instantly to River’s flat, she braves a quick trip to Bond Street to find something suitably heart-attack inducing to let him strip her out of. She smiles to herself as she browses the racks at Rigby & Peller, wondering if John has a lace fetish. Only one way to find out…

 

She pulls a set of red lingerie from the rack, sighing out a pleased hum when she spots the matching corset right beside it. Before she can contemplate tracking down a salesgirl with a key to the dressing room, her mobile buzzes in her pocket. She fishes it out, glimpses Rory’s name on the screen, and answers it.

 

Rory doesn’t even give her a chance to utter a greeting. “River? Where are you?”

 

She smirks, eyeing the lingerie in front of her. “I don’t think you really want the answer to that, dear.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, and she finally detects the tremor in his voice. She freezes, everything around her fading into the background and Rory’s voice the only thing in focus. “Another article came out today and-”

 

She sags against the lingerie rack in relief. “Oh, is that all? Rory, I told you I don’t care what sort of rubbish they print-”

 

“It’s about Amy.”

 

Drawing in a sharp breath, River nods once. “I’ll be right there.”

 

She hangs up without waiting for a reply, leaving the lingerie hanging on the rack and racing outside to wave down a cab. She spends the drive huddled in the backseat on her mobile, searching through the day’s articles until she finds Amy’s name. The headline makes her stomach sink – “River Song’s Troubled Bestie” – and the story itself does nothing for her growing nausea.

 

_In our efforts to uncover the identities of the couple currently offering sanctuary to River Song, paramour of TARDIS’ very own John Smith, the Sun has discovered a plethora of troubles following poor Amelia Pond from childhood – beginning with a string of child therapists and ending most recently with medical issues that make pregnancy an impossibility. Sources close to Pond and her husband say that the unwelcome news came after years of trying to conceive..._

 

Rory is waiting for her at the door when she stumbles out of the cab and throws a wad of five pound notes at the driver. Out of breath and fuming, she asks, “Where is she?”

 

“Upstairs. River-”

 

“I’ll handle it.” She squeezes his arm and rushes past him, climbing the stairs two at a time. She finds Amy in her bedroom, huddled under a pile of blankets in the dark. River approaches the bed cautiously, calling out softly, “Amy?”

 

Amy lifts her head, emerging from her nest of blankets to squint through the dark at River. “I told him not to call you.”

 

“He didn’t,” she lies, forcing a smile. “I just knew. I always know.” She settles onto the edge of the bed and her heart sinks when she sees how red Amy’s eyes are. She reaches instinctively for her hand. The moment their fingers clasp, Amy’s eyes begin to well up. River tugs her into her arms, holding Amy’s slender, trembling frame against her. Petting her hair, she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Amy.”

 

Amy sniffles, her damp lashes fluttering against River’s neck. “Not your fault,” she mumbles tearfully.

 

_Yes_ , River thinks, closing her eyes. _It is_.

 

-

 

When John arrives that evening, River sits on the edge of her sofa and listens to his footsteps on the creaking stairs, her heart in her throat. The door is unlocked and he lets himself in, kicking it shut with his foot. He’s carrying his bag over his shoulder, his guitar case in one hand and a bouquet of limp tulips in the other. He’s wearing black jeans, scuffed Doc Martens, and his dark sunglasses hang from the neck of his old hoodie. His gray hair is rumpled and he looks exhausted but _oh_ he’s beautiful and she’s missed him like hell.

 

He drops his things by the door with a sigh and when he looks up, he spots her instantly. His entire face lights up when their gazes lock and River watches with an ache in her chest as he grins, the tired lines around his eyes all but disappearing. He walks right up to her before she can think of a thing to say, grasping her arms in his hands and hauling her to her feet, crushing his mouth to hers.

 

River whimpers against his lips, leaning hungrily into him. She clutches his hoodie between white-knuckled fingers and opens her mouth to his insistent tongue, tasting mint and nicotine on his breath. Her knees tremble and her eyes sting behind closed lids but John wraps an arm around her waist and keeps her upright.

 

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he rasps, breathing raggedly against her cheek. He brushes his mouth along her temple and down the bridge of her nose. “I’m so sorry about all this shit-”

 

“They’ve moved on just like you said.” River steels herself, carefully extricating herself from his arms. As long as he’s holding her, she’ll never be strong enough to do what needs to be done. “To Amy.”

 

John drops his arms back to his sides, watching with narrowed eyes as she puts distance between them. “Is she all right?”

 

“She’d finally stopped crying when I left.” River wraps her arms around her middle, pursing her lips and staring at the floor beneath her feet. “But no, I wouldn’t qualify that as all right by any stretch of the imagination.”

 

“River-”

 

She draws in a breath, knowing that if she lets him, he’ll talk her out of it before she’s even begun. “I can’t do this anymore.”

 

John squeezes his eyes shut, his expression crumpling like she’d just hit him. “Please, don’t.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she’s never meant anything more. John sways on his feet and it takes every ounce of strength she possesses not to cross the distance between them. She digs her nails into her palms and doesn’t move. “It was fine when they were focused on me. It was fine when customers couldn’t even get into my shop because of the paparazzi crowded around outside. It was fine when they printed every terrible thing I’ve ever done in my life for the whole world to read, or hell, when they followed me into bloody Tesco.”

 

Staring at her with wet eyes, John looks at her as though he’s only just begun to understand how so much attention might affect a normal person. She can’t blame him for being used to the spotlight.

 

River swallows the lump in her throat. “I could handle all that. I expected it, really. Comes with the territory of dating you. But Amy didn’t ask for any of this and I won’t make her endure it for my sake.”

 

“River,” he begins hoarsely, taking a step toward her. She backs away instantly, not trusting herself if he comes any closer, and John freezes in place. Hands clenched at his sides, he tries gently, “Don’t do this. I know I’ve been away and you’ve been dealing with this alone but I’m here now and I swear to you – I’ll fix it.”

 

She shakes her head and forces a smile but it feels broken and tired. “You can’t fix this, John.”

 

“I can and I will.” His nostrils flare and his jaw clenches and he looks at her like she’s a particularly difficult song he can’t find the right melody for. Like he can make it better, make it _complete_ , if he just keeps trying. “Before I left, things were… perfect. I’ll make it perfect again, I promise you.”

 

A hollow laugh spills from her lips and River sniffles. “It was perfect because we were in a bubble, John. It wasn’t real.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” he snarls. “This has been the most real fucking thing in my life and I won’t let you pretend otherwise -”

 

River breaks. “What do you want me to do, John? Amy and Rory have been all I’ve had my whole life. They’re my _family_. I won’t let them get hurt because of me. I won’t lose them or turn their lives upside down for something as selfish and fleeting as -”

 

“As what?” He asks quietly, eyes narrowed. “Love?”

 

River flinches, refusing to meet his searching gaze. “It’s only been a few months,” she says, forcing lightness she doesn’t feel into her voice. “And you’ve been gone for weeks. We should just end this now before it goes any further. Before we risk getting hurt.”

 

For a moment, the flat is so silent River can hear people going past the shop downstairs – feet against the pavement, voices, cars driving by. She can even hear her own heartbeat, pounding away in her throat. When John finally speaks, she almost jumps.

 

“Right,” he says, slow and measured. Pained. “Well, I’m glad one of us is getting out of this unscathed.”

 

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes lift from the floor and whatever’s left of her heart breaks at the look on his face – closed off and angry and not at all the kind-hearted idiot who had marched through the door with flowers a few minutes ago and snogged her silly. “What did you expect John? Happily ever after?”

 

His mouth twitches, a melancholy approximation of a smile. “Didn’t you?”

 

She shakes her head. “There’s no such thing. There’s only time.” She blinks hard, wrapping her arms around her middle in a vain effort to ward off the way her body has begun to tremble. “That’s all any of us ever get, John. Just a little time. And we’ve had ours, haven’t we?”

 

With tears in her eyes, River watches as John turns away and moves mechanically toward his abandoned bag by the door. He shoulders it once more and picks up his guitar case, gripping it with a white-knuckled hand. Back to her, he pauses in the doorway and says, “I suppose thanks is in order then. For your time.”

 

Her breath catches. “John -”

 

He’s already gone, the door clicking shut behind him. River doesn’t move or breathe, listening intently to the sound of his retreating footsteps on the stairs. She hears the door slam shut behind him and nothing remains but silence, mocking her for sending away the best man she’s ever known. Her ears ring and her throat feels too tight to swallow but it’s only when her blurred gaze lands on the tulips John had left behind that her knees finally give out.

 

Outside, a passing car blasts its stereo, rattling the windows as it goes by, and River listens with a cry caught in her throat as John Smith’s voice echoes down the street.

 

_Take from me_

_What you want_

_What you need_

_But my lover_

_Please stay with me_


	5. hey baby saw you on the news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble with dating someone as famous as John Smith – other than the obvious, of course – is that once they break up, everyone in the world knows it. Considering River has never really had a relationship that lasted long enough for her to be heartbroken over it before, battling through her first one in the public eye is hardly how she would have preferred to go about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is pining. So much pining. 
> 
> Chapter title from On The News by Keaton Henson. John's new song mentioned in this chapter is The Night We Met by Lord Huron.

_October_

 

The trouble with dating someone as famous as John Smith – other than the obvious, of course – is that once they break up, everyone in the world knows it. Considering River has never really had a relationship that lasted long enough for her to be heartbroken over it before, battling through her first one in the public eye is hardly how she would have preferred to go about it.

 

Instead of taking a few days off work to wallow in her bed and eat too much ice cream or going out every night to drink and forget, she’s forced to live her life as she usually would lest the entire world be subject to the knowledge that she’s in mourning.

 

So she nurses her wounds in private, curled up in her bed in her flat after long days minding the shop. She used to like having her bed all to herself, cringing away from the thought of sharing with someone else for more than a few hours but now it seems far too big and far too empty. Everything feels a little more empty now - her bed, her hands, her life.

 

_It’s only been a few months_ , she’d told John. _Let’s end it now before we get hurt._ It had been far too late for that and she’d known it but it had pushed him away, just like she’d wanted. Or at least that’s what she thought she wanted until she saw the look on his face. She’s done nothing but think of it since.

 

Though she likes to believe she hides her heartache fairly well, even Ramone has noticed. He keeps shooting her sympathetic glances when he thinks she isn’t looking and River bites her tongue every time in an effort not to snap at him. She knows he means well, oddly touched when he stops even playing the radio in the shop anymore, just in case. The two of them spend their days working in silence and River tries desperately not to think of it as some sort of metaphor but it hangs over her like an omen. John had taken the music with him when he left.

 

Eventually, Amy intervenes by dragging her out to dinner but to her displeasure, River doesn’t do much but push her food listlessly around her plate and drink too much wine. “You are River bloody Song,” she snaps, nudging River beneath the table with a pointy-toed high heel. “Stop moping about and go get laid.”

 

“Don’t you think I know what I should be doing?” She hisses, attempting to keep her voice down. Unnamed sources are sodding well everywhere. “Do you have any idea how much I would love to forget about that idiot and go shag Ramone senseless? I can’t, all right? I just… I can’t.”

 

Forgetting about John seems like some distant, unreachable dream. Maybe even a nightmare – she hasn’t decided yet. And the thought of touching someone else right now, or letting someone touch her, makes her feel physically ill. She’s not ready for that and she doesn’t know when she will be. She doesn’t want anyone else. She wants John.

 

Gazing helplessly across the table at her best friend, River asks, “Is there something wrong with me?”

 

Amy watches her with pity in her eyes. “Afraid not.” She reaches out a slender hand and squeezes River’s fingers. “I know you don’t really have much experience with relationships but this is how it feels when you break up with someone you really lov-” At River’s glare, she amends, “ _Cared about_. Especially when you still want to be with them.”

 

“I couldn’t be with him anymore.” River stares into her wine glass, inexplicably wishing for a tumbler of whiskey instead if only to have a reminder of him to hold onto. “All the attention was too much.”

 

Amy snorts. “You love attention.”

 

“Not that sort.” River takes a long sip of her drink, avoiding Amy’s stare. “You read what they printed about me.”

 

“Yeah and it was horrible but you never let it bother you. You never would have left John over it.” Amy sighs and when River risks a glance at her, her friend is watching her with narrowed eyes. “I’m not clueless, River. I know why you did it and I need you to know that while I appreciate how stupidly protective you are, I don’t need you to be. In fact, I’m furious with you.”

 

River blinks at her. “Sorry?”

 

Amy glares. “John made you happy, River. Like, really happy.” Her expression crumples and River watches in alarm as her eyes begin to water. “I would never want you to give that up. Not for anything. And certainly not because of me.”

 

It’s impossible not to think of how she’d found Amy that day, huddled in bed with her eyes red and swollen from crying because everyone in the world knew about the pain she’d kept so secret and close to her heart. River would do anything to protect her friends – her _family_ – even give up John.

 

“I wasn’t protecting you.” She forces a smile, tossing her curls. “I just couldn’t bear to share the spotlight.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Amy nudges a plate from the middle of the table and toward River. “You’re a rubbish liar but if you eat something, I’ll drop it.”

 

River picks up a breadstick.

 

_November_

 

Returning to her normal life sans rock star only holds the public interest for a couple of weeks but John isn’t nearly so lucky. He was always hounded on a regular basis anyway but now everyone is apparently dying to know how he’s coping after his split with the only woman he’s actually properly dated in decades.

 

Unfortunately for River, that means she sees him far more than anyone should have to look at their ex. His face stares out at her from magazines while she’s in line at the store and he’s in the news constantly, popping up on every damned social media site she happens across.

 

It’s with a sinking heart that she watches the media track his every move, photographing him out nearly every night. Most of the time he’s unshaven and wearing dark, wrinkled clothes. Slightly blurry, hastily snapped pictures start surfacing of him drinking heavily in clubs with Bill or standing outside on the pavement at three in the morning having a smoke. There are video clips on Twitter of him wearing those dark sunglasses, attempting to hide his face as he ducks into a pub on Missy’s arm one night.

 

He fascinates the public, a train wreck in the making, and they eat up every single miserable tidbit. Waiting for him to fall. River seethes for days, wondering if his friends care so bloody much about him, why aren’t they looking after him? Why are they enabling him by taking him out drinking and letting him stay up all night and allowing the bloody paparazzi to photograph it?

 

Missy, of course, can’t be counted on to do the responsible thing and Nardole is absolutely hopeless at making John do anything he doesn’t want to do but surely he’d listen to Bill. The girl calls him her honorary grandfather, for god’s sake. Why isn’t he listening to her?

 

She has to force herself not to call and shout at every single one of the idiots. It isn’t her responsibility to fret over the wellbeing of John Smith any longer. He’s a grown man well aware of this checkered history with drug and alcohol abuse and he’s just going to have to take responsibility for his damned self.

 

In a drastic effort to purge him from her life, River deletes every single social media app from her phone and throws away the passwords. She goes through the self-checkout at Tesco so there isn’t any time to stop and stare at all the magazines on display. She throws herself wholly into finishing her manuscript, pushing herself to write thousands of words every day just to keep her mind occupied.

 

When she finishes it, she rewrites it and edits it and rewrites it again until she can’t remember what lines had been her own and what John had suggested with that cheeky grin and a stolen pencil. With each rewrite, she feels like she’s erasing him – bit by bit – and each time, she has to remind herself that’s a good thing.

 

True to her word, Amy stops nagging her but in properly infuriating Scottish fashion, she reminds River that Rory had made no such promise. She sends him in her stead but River finds his quiet presence far preferable to Amy’s probing questions and knowing glances. He stops by every afternoon with tea, poring over River’s manuscript and offering suggestions as he reads.

 

Sitting at her workbench, carefully scraping old glue from the binding of a timeworn Wilkie Collins novel, River listens to the quiet rustle of pages as Rory reads over the changes she’d made to the last chapter. Though she’d bristled at first that her friends felt the need to look after her, she can’t deny she appreciates the company. Anything is better than the silence.

 

“Do you think now’s really the best time for flirting?” Rory asks, frowning at the page. Bless him, he’s so much more tactful than John had ever been when he offered to read her progress. “I mean, she’s in the grip of a terrifying monster that could send her back into the past and feed off her wasted potential.”

 

River shrugs, huffing a curl out of her eyes and reaches blindly for the filmoplast. “That’s the beauty of their relationship, dear. It’s always the best time for flirting.”

 

Snorting under his breath, Rory goes back to reading for another moment before he speaks up again. “Well if they’re going to be shameless in the face of certain death, shouldn’t there be snogging?”

 

“Oh no,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I’m building tension.”

 

Rory purses his lips thoughtfully, his eyes scanning line after line until he reaches the bottom of the page. “In that case, what about something here?” He taps his red pen against a paragraph mid-page. River abandons her current project and slips her glasses from the end of her nose to peer across the room at him. “She’s wearing that amazing dress. He’d be an idiot not to peek.”

 

She freezes. For a moment, she doesn’t see her dusty, cluttered shop. She doesn’t see Rory staring at her hopefully, waiting for approval before he marks the page. She only sees her sun-lit bedroom one summer afternoon not so very long ago, wrapped warm and safe in bed sheets while John read the latest addition to her manuscript.

 

_“Well?”_ She’d asked, chin resting on his bicep. _“What do you think?”_

 

_“Needs more sex,”_ he’d said, smirking when she’d pinched him. _“Your narrator is awfully coy. I already know she’s married to the lanky fellow with the bowtie.”_

 

_“Oh? And how do you know that?”_

 

_“Because,”_ John had said, shifting to drop the pages onto the bedside table. _“He’d be an idiot not to hold onto a woman like that.”_

 

As he turned back to her and covered her body with his own, impatiently peeling away the sheets, River had laughed and kissed him – her hands in his hair and his fingers tapping a rhythm against her bare knee. The air had been warm and John’s skin even more so. She’d settled into his arms and his kiss, happy and loved and invincible.

 

Shaking her head forcibly, River blinks away the memory and finds herself sitting in her little shop, colder and far less convinced of her own invincibility. Rory is still looking at her and she smiles brightly, nodding. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”

 

_December_

 

Her date is very pretty. Tall and thin with fantastic hair, he might even be prettier than Ramone. So pretty, in fact, that she renames him Pretty Boy and laughs when he preens. It might also have something to do with being unable to remember his actual name but he hardly needs to know that.

 

Amy’s promise to keep out of River’s love life had expired – _“Your promises come with expiration dates now?” “They do when you need to get laid, young lady.”_ – and she’d insisted on setting River up with a doctor Rory works with. _No need to be serious if you don’t want to,_ Amy had said, _but let him wine and dine and shag you, yeah?_ She hasn’t been with anyone since John and for River, that’s a terribly long dry spell. With reluctance, she’d agreed.

 

Pretty Boy takes her to see a production of Much Ado About Nothing at the Royal National Theatre and afterward, they walk through the park in all their finery and people watch until they run out of popcorn. He’s funny and intelligent and arrogant and very easy on the eyes. A few months ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated to drag him into her flat and have her way with him.

 

Now, River finds herself standing outside her door and hesitating. Hesitating to have sex with an attractive, unattached man she actually quite fancies while she too is unattached and in desperate need of a shag. Because he isn’t grumpy and sarcastic and silver-haired. Because his eyes don’t soften immeasurably when he looks at her.

 

Glancing up into deep brown eyes, River swallows and steels herself. She’s going to do this. At the very least she’s going to kiss him goodnight – thoroughly – and make plans for a second date because pining after some geriatric rock star for the rest of her life is ridiculous.

 

With a smile she doesn’t truly feel, she leans in and Pretty Boy follows her lead, swaying toward her with a smirk and his hands settling around her hips. He bends his head and her eyes begin to flutter shut, waiting to be kissed; waiting to erase the taste of John Smith from her mouth forever.

 

Her mobile rings.

 

River and Pretty Boy freeze, blinking at each other. “Sorry,” she mutters, and fishes through her handbag for her phone. “Let me just turn this off-” She drops her gaze to her phone, fumbling to switch it to silent, and stops abruptly when she sees the screen. Her breath catches painfully in her throat and her hand tightens around her mobile.

 

“River?”

 

“I’m sorry, I have to take this.” Refusing to meet Pretty Boy’s puzzled gaze, she turns away from him and grips the doorknob in her hand. “Thanks for tonight. It was – sorry.”

 

She shuts the door in his face, pressing her back against it as she brings the phone up to her ear and swipes her finger across the screen. Her voice trembles. “Hello?”

 

“River!”

 

She sighs, sinking slowly down the door as his jubilant, slurring voice rings in her ear. “You’re drunk.”

 

“Am I?” She hears the unmistakable sound of ice clinking against glass. “Maybe just a wee bit. I decided to drink until I felt brave enough to call instead of staring at your number.” He sighs and the line crackles. “You sent me a present.”

 

She bites her lip, thinking of the three slim volumes of Scottish poetry she’d painstakingly restored, tucked into a box, and sent to his publicist. Clearly, Clara had gotten the gift to him in time for the holidays. “I’d already bought them,” she admits, and the excuse sounds flimsy even to her. “Seemed a shame not to give them to you.”

 

“They’re beautiful,” he says softly, the words running together in his drunkenness. “Thank you.”

 

River shakes her head even though he can’t see her. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she begins, “John, you’ve got to start taking better care of yourself. This isn’t healthy.”

 

“Been keeping tabs on me, dear?”

 

She flinches. “Rather difficult not to when your pretty Scottish mug is splashed across every tabloid in the country.”

 

“Pretty? Really?”

 

She sighs. “John-”

 

“You’re tetchy,” he observes, and she’s relieved to realize that he hadn’t been lying before. He’s certainly drunk but not too drunk. Not the messy, angry, emotional kind of drunk that means it’s time to worry about him. Not yet. “Did I interrupt something? Ramone finally bend you over your workbench like he always wanted?”

 

“Shut up, John.” She leans her head back against the door and glares at the ceiling. “I’m tetchy because you’re an idiot who’s going to wind up back in rehab if he isn’t careful.”

 

He huffs, his breath crackling over the line. “I’m not going back to rehab, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, and she allows herself just a moment to shut her eyes and bask in the familiar gruffness of his voice. To miss the warmth of his arms and the smoke that clings to his clothes. “You and Bill are exactly alike. Sodding mother hens, the pair of you.”

 

“Well at least one of your friends is looking out for you.”

 

“Don’t,” he murmurs, and she opens her eyes before she can get lost in that soft, lilting voice. “I’ll be fine. Just need some time to pull myself together. Not exactly easy getting over the fucking love of your life, you know.”

 

River inhales sharply, her eyes stinging. Damn him. Damn him and damn the whiskey that loosened his stupid Scottish tongue. “Well hurry up then,” she snaps, voice quaking. “Write a bloody song about if it you have to but stop this self-destructive bullshit because if I hear you’ve been readmitted, I swear to god John Smith I will find you and kill you myself. Don’t you _dare_ hurt yourself because of me.”

 

After a long pause, he breathes, “Christ, I miss you.”

 

She presses the phone tight against her ear and purses her lips, refusing to say it back no matter how true it might be. She’s been missing him in silence for months now – surely she can manage to get through a phone call without spilling her heart out.

 

As if reading her mind, John says, “Tell me you miss me.”

 

River clenches her jaw. “I will not.”

 

“Why? Because you don’t?”

 

“No,” she admits, hating how quickly this man can make her soften and waver; make her melt like a 99 left in the sun. “Because it won’t do you any good to hear it.”

 

He sighs. “And you always know what’s best for everyone, don’t you, River?”

 

She bites the inside of her cheek, blinking hard. “You shouldn’t have called.”

 

“You didn’t have to answer. Or send me a Christmas present.”

 

There’s nothing she can say to that and absolutely no way to justify it even to herself. If she’s truly honest, she’d sent that gift with the dark hope in her heart that maybe she might hear from him. And when she thinks of how quickly she had abandoned Pretty Boy and any hope of getting laid tonight just because she’d gotten a phone call from John, she wonders if she’ll ever be rid of the pull he has over her.

 

On the other end of the line, she hears his muffled voice ordering another whiskey. “Are you… are you all right? Is Amy all right?”

 

“We’re fine,” she assures him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “The press is far more concerned with you at the moment.”

 

He makes a bitter noise of agreement.

 

“Where are you, John?”

 

“Amsterdam,” he says, and she can hear the fatigue in his voice. “The bar at the hotel.”

 

She thinks of him so far away, alone and tired and drunk, and her throat tightens. “Go up to your room and get some sleep.”

 

“M’not tired.”

 

“I don’t care,” she snaps. “Stop drinking and go to bed.”

 

John sighs and there is so much fondness in the sound that the knowledge of the distance between them brings a physical ache to River’s chest. “For you,” he agrees. “No one else can boss me about like this, you know.”

 

“I know,” she murmurs, smiling sadly. “And John?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Please don’t call again.”

 

She hangs up before he can reply, her vision blurred as she scrolls through her contacts to his name and hits _delete_.

 

_January_

 

When the reports of John Smith being admitted to hospital first start flooding in, River is sitting in her flat with a box of Chinese takeaway and flipping through the channels on her television. She leaves it on the news and listens absent-mindedly to the evening announcements, only glancing up when she hears his name.

 

_“TARDIS lead singer John Smith -”_

 

Her throat tightens and she barely manages to swallow her bite of rice, reaching automatically for the remote with the intention of turning the channel or muting it or turning the whole thing off – bloody well anything that will keep his name and his voice and his everything far, far away from her still raw heart.

 

_“…admitted to University Hospital of Wales this evening but no word yet on the reason for his admittance or his current condition. Considering his downward spiral of late, many fans are speculating that he might have overdosed -”_

 

She can’t breathe. Her chopsticks slip from her numb fingers and clatter to the floor and she’s fairly certain she’s just dropped an entire box of chicken fried rice into her lap but she’ll never know for certain because nothing at all registers except that her ears are ringing and John is in the hospital. Her stomach heaves.

 

Oh god.

 

Lurching off the sofa, River dives for her shoes and her keys.

 

Cardiff is nearly three hours away but she doesn’t remember driving – just the feel of her foot on the gas and her hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel. Her tires screech to a halt in front of the building and she ignores the attendant who shouts _you can’t park there, Miss!_ Her heart won’t leave her throat and she sprints from her car and toward the hospital with a heavy, sinking weight in her chest. The last time she spoke to John, he’d been drunk and she’d been angry and she hadn’t even said goodbye.

 

And now he’s –

 

River shoves open the hospital doors, pursing her lips tightly against the urge to be sick. She stumbles into the lift and presses the button for the A&E, blinking back tears as the lift lurches unsteadily toward the right floor. As the doors slide open again, the first thing she hears is Nardole badgering a nurse for a cup of ice.

 

Grinding her teeth together, River steps out the lift and turns toward the sound of his voice. His eyes widen when he sees her and he lifts a hand tentatively, waving at her. She’s vaguely aware of Missy sitting nearby with a stash of candy from the vending machine and Bill slouched over on the floor flipping through a gossip rag but right now, they aren’t important. The moment she lays eyes on Nardole, she sees nothing but red.

 

“ _You_ ,” she snaps, marching right toward him. Nardole squeaks and stumbles back a step but he backs right into the wall and there’s nowhere to go as River corners him furiously. “You’re supposed to look after him, you incompetent, bumbling _idiot_.” She jabs a finger at his chest, gratified and irrationally furious when he flinches. “You’re supposed to protect him even from himself, you useless lump, but you couldn’t even do that.” She shoves at him, _hard_ , and Nardole yelps as his head smacks the wall. “What is the bloody _point of you_ -”

 

Her voice wavers and cracks, her blind panic and unadulterated fear leaking into her words without her permission. Infuriatingly, it makes Nardole soften. He slumps against the wall and lets her dig her fingertip viciously into his chest. Eyeing her with maddening calm, he says, “It wasn’t exactly preventable, Ma’am.”

 

“Not preventable?” River seethes, clenching her hands into fists. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

Across from them, surrounded by chocolate bars and crisps, Missy snorts. “I know you’re in love with the sod, pet, but surely not even Nardole can be expected to protect him from the flu.”

 

River freezes, turning slowly to stare at Missy over her shoulder. “What?”

 

Missy rolls her eyes and explains with exaggerated patience, “He just has the flu, the idiot. Now calm down before you make Nardole wet himself. Again.”

 

Nardole scowls at her, harrumphing irritably.

 

“The flu?” She repeats, hardly able to believe her own ears. “He’s… _the flu_?”

 

“River?” Bill approaches her cautiously, her wide brown eyes soft with concern. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

 

She shakes her head mutely, grateful when Bill grasps her elbow and leads her gently toward a chair in the waiting area. Legs numb and heart still thumping wildly with rage and fear, River sinks into the seat and stares blankly at her shoes. Bill crouches in front of her, hands on her knees, and tries to catch her gaze.

 

River swallows thickly, forcing her tongue to form words. “He’s… fine?”

 

“Course he is.” Bill squeezes her knee and tries to smile. “I would never let anything happen to him. I promise you.”

 

Shutting her eyes, she nods and reaches blindly, gratefully, for Bill’s hand. The younger girl squeezes her fingers and River finally allows herself to breathe again. Her lungs burn and her chest aches and there are tears stinging her eyes but none of it matters because John is all right. God, he’d scared the hell out of her but he’s fine. He’s fine.

 

“I promise,” Bill repeats, and River realizes belatedly that she’d been muttering it out loud. “You can see him for yourself if you’d like.”

 

River blinks open her eyes, staring at her hopefully.

 

Bill smiles, jerking a thumb over her shoulder and pointing to a door just down the corridor. “He’s in there, terrorizing the nurses. I’m sure – no, I _know_ he’d love to see you.”

 

The thought of seeing John again is too terrifying and wonderful to contemplate. As much as she longs to run down the hall to his room just to look at him, just to assure herself that yes of course he’s fine and stubborn and ridiculous as ever, she can’t bring herself to do it. Seeing him and touching him and watching him smile at her? Not even she’s strong enough to walk away from that again.

 

“No,” she says haltingly, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

 

Bill’s bright smile fades. “River, you drove all the way here -”

 

“It was a mistake,” she whispers, tugging her hand gently from Bill’s. “I shouldn’t have come.”

 

Watching her sadly, Bill says, “You thought he was dying.”

 

River swallows, remembering the terror that had overcome her when she heard his name on the news. The way her hands shook on the drive to the hospital. The fear that chokes her even now, knowing he’s just down the hall and probably griping about the IV in his arm.

 

“But he isn’t,” she says, forcing a smile. “He’s fine.” Bill doesn’t say anything as River rises to her feet but she hovers worriedly just the same, arms outstretched as River sways in place for a moment. Turning to stare longingly down the hall at the door to his room, she requests softly, “Please don’t tell him I was here.”

 

Sighing, Bill nods. “If that’s what you want.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, and with one last glance down the corridor, she turns and walks in the other direction. She makes the drive home in silence, refusing to turn on the radio for fear that the sound of his voice might make her turn the car around.

 

_March_

 

“Oh come on, just one more.”

 

“Absolutely not.” River pauses in the middle of helping herself to another serving of Rory’s lasagna to glare at Amy. “I’ve had quite enough of your blind dates.”

 

“But you can’t quit – you haven’t found anyone yet.” Amy pouts, glancing to Rory for backup. Mercifully, Rory refuses to meet her gaze and simply sips his wine in tactful silence. “What about that guy in my office – the one who used to serve in the army. He’s buff and easy on the eyes.”

 

River cuts into her lasagna and says, “Not interested.”

 

“But -”

 

“Amy, I appreciate the concern but I have no interest in spending another dreadful evening with another boring coworkers of yours or Rory’s.” She slides a bite of lasagna into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “In fact, one more wasted hour of my life listening to one of them mansplain my own bloody career to me and I may actually hang myself with one of their terrible neckties.”

 

Amy scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, they can’t have all been bad.”

 

Rory frowns. “The men or the neckties?”

 

She nudges him fondly. “Both.”

 

River fixes them with a stern glance. “The last man you sent me out on a date with wore a vegetable on his lapel and the one before that kept asking me if I liked jelly babies and refused to take off his scarf. I’m _through_ with the whole sorry business.”

 

Scowling into her salad, Amy mutters, “I just want you to be happy.”

 

Sighing, River sets down her fork and reaches for her wine. “I don’t need a relationship to be happy, Amy.”

 

“Course not.” She scowls, spearing a baby tomato. “But when you were with -” She stops, her eyes widening, and Rory shifts in his seat uncomfortably. They’ve both taken great pains not to mention John in front of her and River fights back the urge to roll her eyes as they exchange glances of mild horror. Recovering herself quickly, Amy clears her throat and finishes, “I just know you can be happier. I’ve seen it.”

 

“And maybe I’ll find that again one day.” River shrugs, avoiding their pained stares. “But I’m not going to force it. I want something easy. I hate small talk and I hate all those awkward pauses. I hate how fumbling the sex is before you learn what the other person likes. I just want to meet someone and have a connection with them, like those stories you hear about the bloody lightning bolt.”

 

“That’s just a fairy tale, River.” Amy shakes her head, her eyes soft and kind and full of pity that makes River bristle. “Real life isn’t like that. It takes work and getting to know someone.”

 

River drains the last of her wine. “It happened that way for Rory.”

 

Softening, Amy nods and glances fondly at her husband. “Yeah but it took me a bit longer, remember?”

 

River nods and though she means to let the subject drop, the confession spills out of her mouth without express permission from the rest of her. “It happened that way for me. With John.”

 

Amy and Rory freeze, silence reigning as they stare uneasily at River.

 

She barely notices them, remembering how he’d burst into her shop and slammed the door, skulking behind the windows and peering out like the overdramatic sod he is. She’d been intrigued before he ever opened his mouth and she’d fallen the moment he smiled at her. It’s not the sort of thing that happens every day and she isn’t counting herself lucky enough that it happens to her twice in her life.

 

Swallowing hard, she forces a smile and looks up into the concerned eyes of her dearest friends. “Forget it. I didn’t invite myself to dinner to reminisce about exes. I actually have some news.”

 

“You’re always invited, silly goose.” Amy smiles back, her eyes glistening. “Go on then, tell us. Have you finally finished that book of yours?”

 

“Actually, I did.” River fiddles with her wine glass, biting her lip. “And I sent it out to a few publishers right before Christmas.”

 

Amy leans forward in her seat, eyes wide. “And?”

 

“One of them contacted me last week.” Smiling – really, genuinely smiling for the first time in far too long – she admits, “They want to publish The Angel’s Kiss.”

 

Amy shrieks, bouncing right out of her seat with a bright laugh and throwing herself across the table at River. Laughing, River wraps her arms around her and peers through the curtain of ginger hair in her face to look at Rory. Still sitting in his chair, arms crossed and proud smile on his face, he mouths _congratulations_.

 

_Thank you_ , she replies with a wink.

 

Wrapped up tight in Amy’s giddy embrace and with Rory’s reassuring presence across from her, River can almost forget that someone is missing.

 

_April_

 

It’s been a few months since she’s seen John in the news so when he pops back up again, clean shaven and wearing a new suit as he promotes the new TARDIS album, River is almost relieved. He looks good. Delicious, actually. And more importantly, his eyes are bright and clear and though his charming smile seems a bit hollow, he’s clearly doing better than the last time they’d spoken.

 

As the album is released and the band starts touring, John is absolutely everywhere. She does her best to avoid any mention of him, busying herself with promotional work and approving the cover design for her book as it prepares to hit the shelves of bookstores around the UK.

 

When she isn’t preoccupied with sending her fragile new baby out into the world to be read and judged and possibly found wanting, she occupies her time by repairing books in her shop. Ramone has taken up most of the slack in her absence but as things start to slow down as the release date for her book looms ahead, she finds herself spending more time lost in dusty, crumbling tomes again.

 

It isn’t until late April that she finally starts really paying attention to John’s new album and only because she shoves aside a stack of badly damaged books to find a copy of NME underneath. John’s smirking face gazes back at her, his blue eyes totally obscured by those damn sunglasses of his.

 

River swallows, glancing around the shop in hopes someone will stop her from what she’s about to do, and groans when she finds it empty. There’s only Ramone, currently out front manning the counter, and he’d probably been the one to leave the magazine lying about in the first place.

 

With a hand that shakes, she reaches for the magazine and scans the main headline:

 

**“Mad, Bad, and Better Than Ever: TARDIS lead singer, guitarist, and lyricist opens up about love, loss, and the meaning of ‘Little Time’”**

 

Heart in her throat, she flips through the pages until she comes to the main article, complete with a full page spread of John sitting on an empty, dark stage with his guitar on his lap and a cigarette in hand, his hair artfully tousled. Smiling despite herself, River stares at the photograph for a beat too long before her eyes eventually wander reluctantly away to the article itself. Tuning out the radio Ramone is fiddling with in the front of the shop, she scans the interview with all the wild eagerness of a hungry child turned loose in a candy store.

 

**_You started working on the songs for this album after your breakup with River Song last year, correct?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ I did.

**_From reports at the time, the two of you were pretty happy together. What can you tell me about the reasons you parted ways?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ Absolutely fucking nothing. Leave her out of this. She’s been through enough.

**_All right. But is it fair to say most of your inspiration for this album was taken from that relationship?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ I suppose so, yes.

**_What about the album title? Little Time? Where did that come from?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ It was something she said to me once. It stuck.

**_Let’s talk about The Night We Met. It’s such a departure from your usual but it’s so moving. Can you walk me through your head space at the time you wrote it?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ I was going through a bit of a rough patch at the time. The only thing in the world I wanted was to go back in time and fix whatever I’d done to lose everything. Keep us both from getting hurt.

**_So you wouldn’t do it all over again if you could?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ Oh, of course. In a fucking heartbeat. I’m rubbish at learning from my mistakes.

**_Is that how you’d classify that time in your life? A mistake?_ **

**SMITH** _:_ Not her, no. Everything else, maybe, but never her.

 

The interview goes on for another page but River can’t bear to read one more line. She shuts the magazine hurriedly and wipes at her eyes, setting her jaw and contemplating hurling the damned thing at a wall.

 

From the direction of the shop front, she hears a familiar voice and her heart almost stops before she realizes it’s only the radio. She listens as Ramone curses under his breath and scrambles to turn it off but he isn’t fast enough. She listens to the opening verse of the new TARDIS hit and crumples the magazine in her fist.

_I am not the only traveler_  
_Who has not repaid his debt_  
 _I've been searching for a trail to follow again_  
 _Take me back to the night we met…_

 

_June_

 

The last night of the European tour ends in London and when River joins the Ponds for dinner a few days before the show, it’s with the knowledge that for however briefly, John Smith is in the very same city. She’s especially careful to avoid news coverage in an effort to avoid temptation. If someone mentions on Twitter that he’s been spotted in Covent Garden or Camden Town, she simply doesn’t trust herself not to “accidentally” run into him.

 

It’s been a year since the day they met and she’s just as infatuated now as she had been then, only with months of miserable pining under her belt. During dinner with Amy and Rory, she does her best not to think of it and talks instead of her excitement when she’d walked past Waterstones that afternoon and saw her book on display in the window.

 

Amy and Rory smile and nod and do their best to appear engaged but River has known them too long not to see the guilt written all over their faces. They’ve done something and whatever it is, they’re feeling terrible about it. She knows better than to ask, instead plying them with more wine and hoping it’ll loosen their tongues.

 

In the end, it’s Rory who takes a deep breath and says, “So John is in town…”

 

Glass halfway to her mouth, River tightens her grip around the stem and stares at him. “Yes,” she says slowly, dread starting to fill her stomach. What had they done? “It’s the last stop on the tour. Why?”

 

Rory ignores her, scratching the back of his head. “Right, the tour,” he rambles. “I’ve heard good things, haven’t you, Amy?”

 

With an impatient huff, Amy folds her hands on top of the table and fixes River with a stern glance. “We bought tickets. Three of them. And we think you should come with us.”

 

River blinks at them in silence for a long moment before promptly bursting into laughter. Amy and Rory stare at her uneasily but it’s several long seconds before she can make manage to catch her breath. “Right, of course,” she says, still giggling a touch hysterically. “I’ll just throw away the last nine months getting over him and sit in the front row, shall I?”

 

Amy frowns. “Getting over him? Is that what you call what you’ve been doing?”

 

“Amy,” Rory murmurs, laying a hand on her arm. His kind, pitying gaze lands on River and she stares at him, the laughter dying in her throat. “We just think it might be good for you to see him. It might even help, in some weird, exposure therapy sort of way.”

 

River shakes her head, protesting even as everything within her is screaming at her to take the chance to see him again – even if it’s just some rubbish balcony view. “I can’t -”

 

“You can and you will.” Amy crosses her arms over her chest, glaring. “We were just trying to ask nicely but you’re going whether you like it or not, young lady.”

 

“Oh, I am, am I?” River arches an eyebrow, smirking. “I don’t recall acquiring such busybody parents.”

 

Amy juts out her chin. “Well you’ve got them. Mum and Dad know best, so hush and finish your peas.”

 

She grumbles and refuses and complains but eventually, just as they’d known she should, River agrees to accompany them to see TARDIS in concert. After nearly a year of just watching him through tabloid pictures and video clips on the evening news, she’s going to see John Smith again.


	6. look as good as the day i met you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been so long since she’s seen him in person and she’s been left with the lasting image of his retreating back for so long. It’s a relief to see him now in his natural habitat and she drinks him in, tucking away each grin and stomp of his boots and tousle of his hair to take out and savor later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a reunion. 
> 
> Chapter title from Closer by the Chainsmokers. The song John performs at his show is the acoustic version of Better Man by Paolo Nutini.

John Smith on a stage in the middle of a crowd is a sight to behold. She’d never paid much attention before they met, and while they were together he hadn’t done any shows, but now it’s easy to see why so many are drawn to him. He commands attention in a way not many are capable of. With John, there are no theatrics or pyrotechnics to drive the crowd into a frenzy. It’s just him and his guitar and his voice and his clear bond with the other members of his band all combined to create this huge presence that needs no artifice or distraction.

 

Somehow, Amy and Rory had managed to get amazing seats near the stage. Wedged between her friends, River stares up at John charming his audience and feels perfectly content to stare as much as she likes, knowing he’ll never spot her in a sea of so many. It’s been so long since she’s seen him in person and she’s been left with the lasting image of his retreating back for so long. It’s a relief to see him now in his natural habitat and she drinks him in, tucking away each grin and stomp of his boots and tousle of his hair to take out and savor later.

 

Onstage, John is in the middle of a duet with Missy. He drapes himself over her piano with a cheeky grin and when Missy glowers at him, River can’t tell if it’s genuine or for the benefit of their audience. Perhaps a bit of both because John grins and rolls away, returning to his mic at the front of the stage.

 

River can’t take her eyes off him. He’s magnetic like this, perfectly in his element and so much larger than life. Like a monolith standing tall and proud among them, having weathered so much but never wavering. In front of an audience he’s sexy and confident and swaggering but she knows now it’s mostly a facade. She doubts there are many privy to what’s underneath – the affectionate, sensitive idiot who relies on sarcasm the way others rely on oxygen. For the life of her, she’ll never understand what made him decide to love her but she’ll always be grateful for their perfect bubble of little time.

 

The show winds down far too quickly for her taste and when it’s time for the last song of the set, John takes a moment to thank the audience for “indulging a maudlin old man”. He flashes a grin when the crowd cheers, peering out at them from beneath the stage lights. “The last song for tonight is something I wrote on the plane back to England from the U.S. last year. Thought I was flying toward my future but it’s over now.”

 

Beside her, Amy glances at her sharply but River keeps very still, her face carefully blank. She can barely hear John over the sound of her heart thumping in her ears.

 

“Song’s still true, though and it’s still for her, wherever she is.” John slides his fingers experimentally over the strings of his guitar, swallowing audibly. “So enjoy, I suppose. Or don’t if you’d rather. I’ve got your money already so it makes no difference to me.”

 

He smirks and River rolls her eyes, listening to a group of teenage girls behind her swoon. “Idiot,” she mutters under her breath, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek so Amy won’t see her smile and mock her for it. She needn’t have worried. The urge to laugh disappears the moment John starts singing.

 

_She makes me smile_

_She thinks the way I think_

_That girl makes me wanna be better_

 

John presses his mouth against the mic, crooning softly into it with his eyes shut. His hands move elegantly, intimately, along his guitar and she remembers only too well how it felt when he touched her like that – with reverence in his fingertips.

 

He sways in place, a faint smile curling his mouth. River stares at him with a lump in her throat and the crowd and the stage lights fade into the background until John is the only thing in focus. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes and she blinks hard, swallowing. She barely notices when Amy takes her hand and squeezes.

 

_She’s fearless, she’s free_

_Oh she is a real live wire_

 

He’d written this on his flight back to her all those months ago, probably huddled in his seat by the window and ignoring Missy’s incessant requests for a go at the oxygen mask. He’d sat there staring out at the clouds, thinking of River and their future together, and wrote this. He’d loved her. Really and truly loved her the way she’d never thought anyone would.

 

By the time the last note rings out over the crowd, she can barely breathe. John thanks the audience once more, waves to the crowd, and disappears backstage with Bill and Missy. And just like that, it’s over. The lights go up and everyone begins to shuffle out of the stadium but River can’t bring herself to move.

 

She stares up at the empty stage, Amy still gripping her hand, and struggles to push away the profound sense of loss. There’s a horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that reminds her of walking out a dark theater and into the sunlight – like magic being stripped away and replaced with the stark coldness of reality.

 

“River,” Rory begins hesitantly, squeezing her shoulder. “Are you -”

 

“I’m fine.” She smiles, brittle and forced and from the looks on her friends faces, entirely transparent too. “Though I don’t think your theory of exposure therapy is entirely accurate, dear. Anyone for a drink before we head back?”

 

Amy smiles. “Actually, we’ve been invited backstage.”

 

Her stomach lurches but it’s impossible to tell if it’s fear or excitement that makes all the blood drain away from her face. The ground itself seems to shift beneath her feet. Off balance and nauseated, she turns slowly to stare at Amy and asks, “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing!” Amy crosses her arms over her chest defensively, jutting out her chin. “It was Bill and Missy’s idea – they’re the one who got us the tickets in the first place.”

 

“They did _what_?”

 

Rory pats her arm sympathetically, his eyes bright with hidden amusement. “Come on then,” he says, pushing her gently in the right direction. “Don’t want to be late, do you?”

 

Too stunned to argue, River lets him guide her away from the emptying stadium and toward the stairs near the stage. Her legs feel numb and mouth tastes like cotton. There’s a faint ringing in her ears and her throat feels as though it has a heartbeat but none of it matters the moment Rory nudges her backstage.

 

She hears John before she sees him and by the time she finally spots him arguing with Missy next to a bunch of sound equipment, it’s only Amy and Rory’s tight grip on her hands that keeps her from turning around and walking away before he sees her.

 

“Would you bugger off?” He snaps, swatting at Missy. “I just want to go back to the hotel and sleep.”

 

Missy scoffs. “We both know you don’t sleep anymore, you lovesick fool.”

 

“Shut it,” he warns, eyes narrowing when Missy stamps her foot like a child. “I’m just… not in the mood tonight. I’ll drink and be merry with you tomorrow. Just…not tonight.”

 

Missy shakes her head, her red nails dig into his sleeve. “Sorry, no. Has to be tonight.”

 

John barely suppresses a snarl. “Why? Why is tonight so bloody important?”

 

Eyes darting over his shoulder, Missy spots them and bites out, “Because I didn’t do something this embarrassingly soppy just for you to miss it because you’re too busy _moping_. Now turn around, you silly sausage.”

 

Brow furrowed, John turns and the moment their eyes meet, everything stops. River stares at him, unable to even draw a breath. Lips parting in shock, John doesn’t move and they stand there for a long moment simply staring at each other. Their friends glance anxiously between them, waiting for one of them to say something. In the end, it’s John who finally breaks.

 

He clears his throat gruffly and says, “Hello.”

 

River smiles softly. “Hello.”

 

“Well,” Missy pipes up, tilting her head. “That’s my good deed for the next century. I’m off to steal a beer lorry. Who’s with me?”

 

Her pointed glare – clearly meant to convey those who stay behind will pay dearly for their disobedience – does the trick. Everyone follows her lead. Even Amy and Rory abandon River’s side to file hurriedly out the room until the only people left are River and John, still standing apart and gazing at each other. The silence rings uncomfortably in her ears and River swallows, searching for something to say to fill the space between them.

 

Wringing her hands, she asks, “How are you?”

 

“Fine. Good.” John stares at his boots, frowning. “You?”

 

“I’ve been better,” she admits, forcing a smile when John’s gaze darts up to hers in surprise. “You seem like you’re doing well though. Much more than the last time we spoke.”

 

“Yes, well…” His mouth curls into a reluctant grin. “I was told in no uncertain terms that another stint in rehab would be grounds for murder so I thought it best to clean up my act.”

 

Smile wobbling at the edges, River takes a step closer. “I’m glad.”

 

John moves too, slowly closing the distance between them. “Me too.”

 

They spend another moment looking away from each other and back again, sneaking precious glimpses and somehow drifting closer all the while. She can’t seem to stop herself, drawn to John and everything he is just as she’d been standing out there in the audience, watching him tell a stadium full of people that he’d wanted a future with her.

 

When she’s near enough to catch the scent of cigarette smoke on his jacket, River says, “Thank you for the song. It was lovely.”

 

He huffs out a breath, meeting her gaze steadily. “Every single song on that album is for you.”

 

She swallows. “I know.”

 

Without another word, she takes one last step and she’s in his arms, John’s hands tangled in her hair. River tips her face up to his and he exhales shakily, his nose brushing hers and his lips teasing the corner of her mouth. She can already taste spearmint and whiskey, half drunk on him without even one kiss. It feels so good to be near him again. She’s missed him and the way he makes her weak-kneed, the way no one else’s arms have ever felt like home before. Like she belongs.

 

Gaze fastened on her mouth, he whispers, “Come back to me.”

 

The quiet plea sends reality crashing down around her ears. Her eyes fall shut and she slips away, her fingers brushing his sleeve tenderly as she stumbles from his arms. She refuses to look at him, refuses to watch her words put that horrible look on his face again. “I can’t.”

 

She hears John’s breath leave him, hissing through his clenched teeth. “Why not?”

 

Wrapping her arms around her middle, River says, “I just can’t.”

 

“I know it’s not because you don’t care. You drove three hours because you thought I’d taken too many fucking sleeping pills.” Her eyes fly open and she gapes at him incredulously. “Bill told me.”

 

“She said she wouldn’t -”

 

“She lied,” he snarls, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me why not, River.”

 

“Because everything ends,” she finally snaps, watching his face fall. “ _We_ would end and there would be no escaping you. I already see your face staring back at me from magazine covers and hear your voice on the radio and it’s like losing you over and over again.” Her eyes flood with tears and she stares at John through a filmy haze. “I can’t fall even more in love with you and then go through that again. Please don’t ask me to, John.”

 

“No,” he says hoarsely, clenching his jaw when his voice wavers. “Of course not. I shouldn’t have -” He shakes himself, turning abruptly away from her and fiddling with his coat. When he turns back again, he’s holding a book. Her book. “Saw it in the airport when we landed and bought every copy. I thought I might read it on the flight tomorrow.”

 

River stares at the slim volume in his elegant hands and it’s too much – the sight of that laborious work of love in the possession of the love that had come so easily.

 

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he goes on, thumbing through the pages and avoiding her gaze. “You’re brilliant, River Song.” A faint smirk curls his mouth. “Don’t suppose I could get your autograph?”

 

She laughs weakly. “Only for you, sweetie.”

 

They both flinch.

 

John offers her the book and her fingers brush his when she takes the pen he hands her as well. She opens her novel, feeling the brand new binding creak as she turns the crisp pages until she reaches the dedication. Her hand shakes but she signs her name beneath it and snaps the book shut, handing it wordlessly back to him.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and he sounds so sincere she wonders if he means for more than just an autograph. He thumbs through the book again, clearly searching for something else to say, and River lingers because she hasn’t gathered the strength she needs to walk away. Her eyes flickers to his face when he freezes on the dedication page where she’d signed, staring down at it blankly. She wonders briefly if it’s the first time he’s seen the words she’d written for him.

 

_For my music man._

_Thank you._

 

His eyes widen and mist over and when he looks up, her breath hitches. He licks his lips. “You know, the fame thing isn’t real. What we had was real. All this -” He gestures carelessly around him. “It’s just a job. I’m not a rock star, River. I’m just an old man standing in front of the woman he loves asking her…” His voice catches and he pauses, clenching his jaw. “Asking her – In spite of all his foibles and follies – to love him back.”

 

Oh god she loves him. No one could ever possibly love him more than she does. But nothing terrifies her more than the thought of losing him again but never being allowed to forget him. Living her life with him constantly looming over her shoulder, reminding her every single day that no one else will ever make her quite that happy. She just can’t.

 

River leans in and brushes her lips hastily against his stubbled cheek. “Goodbye, John.”

 

Chest tight and eyes stinging, she turns and walks away.

 

-

 

Amy and Rory are the first to stop by her shop in the morning, interrupting her right in the middle of a particularly difficult rebinding. Difficult because she can’t focus on anything except the near constant ache in the back of her throat, like a half-formed sob that won’t go away.

 

Slamming the door and sending the bell above it clanging wildly, Amy hollers, “ _Helloo_. Everybody dressed? I brought donuts!”

 

Lifting her head with a huff, River shouts, “In the back. And of course I’m bloody dressed, honestly.”

 

“Oh. Is it just you then?” Amy appears in the doorway, wearing a frown and carrying a large pastry box. “I thought John might be here. The two of you were gone when we got back so I figured -”

 

“I took a cab back home,” she interrupts stiffly, turning away and glaring down at the hot foil stamps scattered across her workbench. “I assume John went back to his hotel room.”

 

“Seriously?” Amy drops the pastry box and slouches against the workbench, her face crumpling into a pout. “What happened?”

 

River purses her lips, fingers tight around her brush. “He wanted to try again but I said I couldn’t.” Neither of her friends says a thing and she doesn’t dare look up and see their faces – whether it’s pity or disappointment in their eyes, she can’t bear it. “What if we broke up again? He’s everywhere. There’d be no getting away from him and I just can’t handle that again.”

 

It’s Amy’s slender hand that covers hers, her bright red nail polish a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. She squeezes gently and when River glances up into her eyes, she says, “I understand.”

 

“You do?”

 

Amy nods, lips pressed tightly together. There’s clearly plenty more she wants to say but to her credit, she doesn’t say it. It’s only because River has known her so long that she sees all the signs of Amy Pond trying her best to be empathetic. “It was… definitely a smart decision. I mean, at the end of the day he’s really nothing special.” She crinkles her nose. “I mean except for the whole rock star thing. But my mother always told me never to trust a musician so.”

 

“Right.” River takes a deep breath. “Good. Thank you, Amy.”

 

Rory, who has stayed quiet up until now, glances between the two of them like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but it’s only when River raises an inquisitive brow that he finally blurts out, “Are you actually serious?”

 

Amy elbows him sharply, glowering. “Rory, this is River’s decision and we’re supporting her. That’s what friends do.”

 

“No, they don’t.” He shakes his head firmly. “Friends keep you from making really daft decisions you’ll regret. Like this one.”

 

“Rory,” River begins gently. “I can’t -”

 

“Not finished,” he snaps, and she blinks at him in surprise. “Yeah, all right so maybe one day in the distant future things might not work out. But what if they do? You said yourself it was instant with John. What if this is _it_ for you and you’re throwing it away because you’re scared? I care about you too much to stand by and let you make that kind of mistake.”

 

Biting her lip, River stares into the earnest eyes of the man who has always looked out for her, always protected her, ever since they were children on the playground and she was the orphan girl with shabby clothes and knobby knees. The man who, despite his youth, has always been like a father to her. “And what of the media? They’re always going to be there, Rory. Following us about, printing horrible stories.”

 

He shakes his head. “That’s nothing but an excuse. Are you really going to let that snake pit stand in the way of your happiness?”

 

River looks away, glancing briefly at Amy. “It’s not just myself I’m worried about.”

 

Amy glares, squaring her shoulders. “Oi, don’t you dare use me as an excuse either, young lady.”

 

Biting her lip, River begins gently, “Amy -”

 

“No,” she snaps. “Sod them. They can print what they like. In fact, let them do their worst. I am _not_ bowing to them anymore and neither are you, do you understand me?”

 

River blinks at her, seeing in that deadly scowl and proudly upturned chin the very same Amelia Pond she’d met on the playground, fierce and bold and daring the bullies to pick on her orphan best friend. She hadn’t needed protecting then and perhaps she never has, despite how River and Rory have tried their best to. “I understand, Amy,” she says faintly, biting back a fond smile.

 

“Good.” Amy nods once, satisfied. “Now what are you going to do?”

 

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, and when she shuts her eyes, she sees nothing but his face. “Before I left last night, John… he said the fame wasn’t real. It was nothing but a job. That he was just a man, standing in front of a woman. Asking to be loved.”

 

Amy makes a faint whimpering noise but Rory doesn’t blink, staring at River expectantly.

 

“My god,” she says, and that sob that’s been caught in her throat since last night threatens to spill out. She stares helplessly at her friends. “I’ve made the wrong decision, haven’t I?”

 

In reply, Amy and Rory nod in unison.

 

River straightens, wiping hurriedly at her eyes. “Where is he? He was supposed to leave today. Did I miss him?” She tugs at her hair, refusing to contemplate what she’ll do if John leaves the country without hearing that he never had to ask for her love. He has it. He’s always had it. “Someone check bloody twitter!”

 

“On it.” Rory fishes his mobile out of his pocket, typing away while River paces the length of her shop and Amy helps herself to one of the donuts in the pastry box. He looks up, his eyes wide. “He’s at the airport.”

 

River snatches his keys from the table. “Let’s go. I’m driving.”

 

-

 

After braving London’s mid afternoon traffic in Rory’s little red sports car, flirting her way out of a speeding ticket, and illegally parking on the pavement outside, River rushes into Heathrow only to find it even more of a nightmare than the drive had been. She stares out over the sea of people moving about and very nearly growls. “How am I supposed to find him in all of this?”

 

Amy pokes her in the side, inclining her head to the left. “Something tells me you should follow all the people with cameras.”

 

“Know-it-all,” River mutters, and kisses her cheek. “Right then. I’ll just go get my damsel, shall I?”

 

Rory pats her on the back. “Right behind you.”

 

By the time she catches up to the crowd of reporters and pushes her way toward the front of the frenzy, John is nearly at security. Bag over his shoulder and guitar case in hand, he looks in no mood to indulge any journalists. He stands in line with Bill and Missy, placidly allowing Nardole to usher him forward.

 

Cameras flash and questions are thrown at him left and right by eager paparazzi hoping to get one last quote before he boards. _Mr. Smith, how long will you be in Scotland? Mr. Smith, when will you start work on a new album? Mr. Smith, any chance you’ll return to England before next summer? What do you like to read on the plane, Mr. Smith?_

 

He ignores them all, almost to security now. River shoves her way closer to the front, no idea what she’s going to say until the words spill out. “Mr. Smith, did you see your ex while you were in town?”

 

John freezes, ignoring Nardole’s attempts to herd him toward security. He turns, intently scanning the crowd. River waves a hand and when he spots her, his eyes widen. He swats absently at Nardole and staggers forward a step. “Yes,” he breathes, sounding choked. “I did.”

 

“And… did you rekindle anything?”

 

He swallows. “I had hoped but… no. She turned me down.”

 

Across the distance, River stares into soft blue eyes and wonders if she’ll ever be able to make it up to him. If he’ll let her, she wants to try. “And if this woman -”

 

“River Song,” the reporter beside her supplies. “Her name was River Song.”

 

“Thank you,” River murmurs, swallowing a smile. “If this River happened to realize her mistake, steal her friend’s car, and race all the way here just to tell you that -” She pauses her eyes watering. “You are loved. So much. And by no one more than her. Would you… do you think you might consider taking her back?”

 

For a long moment, John simply stares at her and River fears he might turn away and board the plane without ever saying a word. She watches him hopefully, refusing to run away this time, and to her relief, John begins to smile. A slow, wide grin that crinkles his nose. “Always,” he says roughly, his face soft with adoration. “Completely.”

 

River beams at him, sniffling. “Good,” she whispers. “That’s good. The readers of Rolling Stone will be glad to hear that.”

 

John snorts and glances pointedly at Nardole, who sighs and clears his throat. Turning to address the crowd of reporters, he shouts, “Due to a slight change of plans, Mr. Smith will be missing his flight today and staying in England indefinitely.”

 

With a bright laugh, River pushes through the reporters and walks right into John’s waiting arms. He drops his bag and his guitar case, gathering her tight against his chest and gripping her to him. She presses her nose into the collar of his hoodie, breathing him in as her eyes begin to well up again. Bending his head, he nuzzles tenderly against her curls until she tips her face up to his and surges up on her toes, her mouth hot and open and her hand gripping the back of his neck.

 

 _I’m sorry_ , she says with her lips and her tongue. Her wet lashes against his cheek. _I love you._

 

John cups her face in his hands and kisses her thoroughly in return, his lips sliding rough and frantic against hers, a low growl of approval rumbling his chest. Around them, camera lights flash. Bill is giggling and Missy is gagging in mock disapproval. Reporters shout questions and Nardole does his best to answer them, stammering his way through a spontaneous statement. Somewhere in the crowd, Amy and Rory are looking on proudly.

 

Wrapped in John’s embrace, River hears and sees none of it. They’re in their perfect bubble once more. If she has her way, they’re never leaving it again.


	7. epilogue: duke and duchess of a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to several reports and the very convincing picture shown above, John Smith has rekindled his love affair with the troubled but beautiful River Song. The two separated last year for reasons unknown and in their time apart, Song wrote a mystery novel – The Angel’s Kiss, selling at #1 on Amazon at the moment – and Smith wrote an entire album dedicated to winning back the heart of his girl. Ah, love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the press fills in the blanks for us.
> 
> Chapter title from Lay By Me by Firekid. Song mentioned in this chapter is Let's Get Married by the Bleachers. "This morning with her, having coffee" is a quote from Johnny Cash about June Carter.

**“Love In An Airport”**

 

_According to several reports and the very convincing picture shown above, John Smith has rekindled his love affair with the troubled but beautiful River Song. The two separated last year for reasons unknown and in their time apart, Song wrote a mystery novel – The Angel’s Kiss, selling at #1 on Amazon at the moment – and Smith wrote an entire album dedicated to winning back the heart of his girl. Ah, love._

_Like a scene in a romantic comedy, the two reunited right in the middle of Heathrow Airport, minutes before Smith was due to embark on a private jet and leave the country. Though the pair has had a rocky past, here at OK! we’re hoping things work out for these crazy kids._

_All they need now is a ship name to make it official. Jiver? Rohn? Tweet us your thoughts using #BetterThanBrangelina._

 

-

 

**Celebrities, They’re Just Like Us: They go to the market!**

 

_In this week’s edition of Celebrities, They’re Just Like Us we have John Smith of the band TARDIS shopping the Portobello market with his longtime paramour and author of the Melody Malone mystery novels. John is just like any other doting boyfriend, carrying River’s shopping bags and holding her hand._

_The two stopped to sneak a kiss and in the pics below, snapped by an eagle-eyed fan, it’s easy to see John has his hands on more than just those shopping bags. The two have been together for a year and a half but it’s clear the heat between them is still sizzling. It’s adorable but we can’t decide who we’re more jealous of – John or River! Take our poll below and help us pick._

 

-

 

**“Celebrity Power Couples, Ranked #1”**

 

_At the top of our list is infinitely attractive duo, John Smith and River Song. As a successful musician, John spends a lot of his time touring but that doesn’t mean his relationship suffers. According to reports, the two exchange love letters when they’re apart (of course this couple is far too cool to simply text) and River frequently accompanies John to his various shows to show support for her man._

_That doesn’t mean her own career aspirations have fallen to the side, of course. The author of the wildly popular mystery series Melody Malone, River is often free to work from her laptop while on the road but when she can’t, John is frequently spotted at her side. Many a fan has snapped sneaky pics of him in the audience at his love’s public readings or standing loyally at her side during book signings._

_The way these two support each other makes us swoon!_

 

-

 

**“Honey, Let’s Get Married”**

 

_According to recent reports and a photograph of River Song out in public wearing a gorgeous vintage ring on a very significant finger, John Smith has decided to take the message of his most recent hit and make it into a reality. The “Let’s Get Married” crooner reportedly proposed to his girlfriend of two years during a quiet dinner at their shared home in London._

_No news yet on whether the couple plans to elope or throw the biggest wedding England has seen since Prince William got hitched to Kate Middleton. We don’t know about you but we’re on the edge of our seats as we watch this modern day love story unfold. Pop open the champagne tonight and toast England’s favorite lovebirds. Congrats, John and River!_

 

-

 

**“And Baby Makes Three”**

 

_It’s official! John Smith and River Song are parents! The rocker himself confirmed the happy news at a show in Sydney over the weekend, gleefully confiding in the audience that he and his wife have welcomed a baby girl. Rumors have been swirling for weeks that River had given birth but the Smiths have kept their precious new bundle out of the public eye._

_Sources who have not yet been confirmed tell us the tyke’s name is Arietta and that Missy, John Smith’s best friend and bandmate, has already been asked to be the baby’s godmother. Pictures of the gorgeous new addition to the royal family of rock have yet to be released but watch this space – you’ll see it here first, folks!_

_In the meantime, our sincere congratulations to the new Mum and Dad!_

 

-

 

**“Serpentine Smack-Down”**

 

_It seems John Smith’s wilder days aren’t totally behind him just yet. During a walk in Hyde Park early this morning with his pregnant wife and daughter, the musician got into yet another altercation with a member of the paparazzi. Witnesses say the family was enjoying a quiet moment feeding the ducks in the Serpentine when the photographer – a man by the name of Sutcliffe who was the first to leak pictures taken from Smith’s hacked mobile last year – emerged from the trees to snap photos of the peaceful scene._

_Those nearby at the time say that the Smiths ignored Sutcliffe until he ventured close enough to shove his camera into the faces of River and little Arietta, at which point John grew furious and punched Sutcliffe right into the Serpentine. The splash was tremendous but witnesses say the ducks, while not pleased at the intrusion, were not harmed. The same could not be said for Sutcliffe, who was left with a broken nose, a waterlogged camera, and a valuable lesson – never come near John Smith’s girls._

_No word yet on whether Sutcliffe plans to take legal action. While the Smith camp has not yet released a statement of apology, I think we all know better than to expect one by now._

 

-

 

**“At Home With The Smiths”**

 

Throughout their relationship, John Smith of the legendary band TARDIS and his wife, River Song – who recently signed a deal with Universal Studios to adapt her novels to the big screen – have lived their lives as privately as possible with the very public lives they lead. Never before have they agreed to let any member of the press inside the deeply secluded sanctuary of their London home but that’s exactly what The Guardian was invited to do.

 

Beyond the guarded, wrought iron gates keeping the Smiths safely cocooned from the rest of the world, lies a house surprisingly tasteful in size. It’s no sprawling mansion but rather the home of a couple who enjoy being close to one another and spending time with their two children. Wildflowers grow on either side of the blue front door and vines of ivy climb the noble brick exterior.

 

River Song answers the door with a toddler on her hip, the newest addition to her family with her rocker husband – a boy called Atticus, who peers at me with wide blue eyes from the safety of his mother’s arms. He tucks his thumb into his mouth and River sighs fondly, kissing the top of his head. “We’re trying to get him to stop but it isn’t as easy as all those bloody parenting magazines make it sound.”

 

Explaining that their five-year-old daughter Arietta is out with her godmother – none other than TARDIS pianist Missy, who is under strict orders to keep away from tattoo parlors – River leads me down a bright hallway and I glimpse a few framed Melody Malone covers and photos of TARDIS on tour. Among them are several carefully positioned personal snapshots. Some of them are clearly from the early days of her courtship with her now-husband but there are quite a few from later in their marriage, including a picture of all four of them on a family vacation in Italy the year before.

 

We reach the back of the house and River pushes open the set of glass-paned double doors that lead into the back garden. It’s here that I finally get a glimpse of the infamous John Smith, standing beneath a towering oak tree smoking a cigarette. He puts it out the moment he sees his wife and child, looking mildly guilty as he flicks it away.

 

“Caught red-handed,” River murmurs, and settles Atticus on a blanket in the grass with a few toys. She indicates a set of patio furniture under a lovely arbor covered with wisteria and as I sink into a comfortable chair, she calls, “Darling, it’s time to be sociable.”

 

Dutifully, John abandons his post beneath the tree and pauses only to ruffle his son’s hair before he joins his wife on a cushioned bench across from me. They sit noticeably close together, their thighs touching and their hands entwined the moment John settles.

 

“You smell like smoke,” River complains, though she makes no move to scoot away from him. In fact, she curls further into him, tucking herself snugly under his arm. “You promised me, sweetie.”

 

He sighs, mouth twitching into a faint smile. “Aye, I did.” He pats his pocket, slides out a carton of cigarettes, and hands them over to his wife without a fuss. “Pitch them in the rubbish bin.”

 

“Don’t think I won’t,” she warns, her eyes narrowed.

 

“Oh, I know.” John leans in and kisses her nose, smirking. “I’m counting on it.”

 

River swats at him, finally breaking into a bout of giggles this journalist would never have believed if he hadn’t heard it himself. “Idiot,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

 

While in the public eye, John and River are flirtatious and outrageous and hardly ever willingly give anyone a piece of their sacredly private life but behind closed doors, it’s clear that they are just as in love now as they were when they met. When I point this out to them, they turn to stare at me as though they had entirely forgotten I was even there.

 

John is the first to recover, though I could swear he flushes just a bit. Most, I dare say, will accuse me of hallucinating but I know I will never forget the sight of England’s baddest rock star flirting with his wife and blushing. “Course we are,” he says dismissively, frowning at me. “Marriage only gets better with age, don’t you think?”

 

I reply that no, that isn’t always the case. In fact, it rarely is.

 

Looking troubled at this, John turns his face into River’s notoriously wild curls and mutters, “Pity.”

 

Watching them canoodle happily across from me, blissfully content to carry on as though I never arrived and only taking their eyes off each other to check on their tot playing nearby, the first thing I have to ask is why, in all the years people have been clamoring for private interviews, did they decide to indulge the press now?

 

With a glib snort, John replies, “I lost a bet.”

 

River elbows him, glaring playfully. “You enjoyed losing, my love.”

 

“Well, who wouldn’t have?”

 

When I inquire further into their bet, I discover the nature of such a game would not be appropriate for the Guardian to print but rest assured, dear readers, that everything we see on camera between John Smith and River Song is one hundred percent the real deal. They shift from quietly adoring to comfortably bickering to scandalously flirtatious with the sort of lightning speed that makes one dizzy to watch up close.

 

At one point during our meeting, we’re interrupted by Atticus toddling up to John with his pudgy arms outstretched and a plea of, “Up, Daddy.” John lifts him and settles the boy on his lap, patiently explaining that he must behave himself because mummy and daddy are working.

 

Atticus nods solemnly, tucking his thumb back into his mouth, and I’m struck at once by how much he favors his father – dark hair and piercing blue eyes, the very same nose and downturned mouth. The way he shows all of his little white toddler teeth when he smiles. Though she isn’t present to compare the two, anyone who has seen photographs – leaked or official – will agree that Arietta is the spitting image of River Song.

 

It’s tempting to turn the conversation to the topic of their children but I’m under strict orders to steer clear of their offspring. I don’t dare acknowledge Atticus even when he snuggles against his father and happily accepts the biscuit John offers him, drooling on it for the duration of our interview. As if I’d forget our agreement, John eyes me over the top of his son’s head like a ferocious Papa Bear protecting his cub.

 

Feeling more than a bit nervous, I force myself to ignore their little one and move the interview along to safer topics – like their careers and how they handle the constant attention of the press. John is reticent when it comes to discussing his own work but when asked about his wife, he’s more than happy to sing her praises.

 

“She handles the spotlight brilliantly,” he says, and River bites her lip against a smile as he brags. “It drove me to rehab a few times before I got the hang of it but River was a fucking professional from the first day.”

 

She kisses his shoulder in quiet thanks and I get the distinct pleasure of watching John Smith melt. I can’t help but ask, “You must like it at least a bit, don’t you? Being the center of attention?”

  

River glances pointedly at her husband, who grumbles under his breath. “Once, maybe. When I was a young lad.” He flashes a quick, rare grin. “But I’m old now and I’ve grown to relish the quiet life. Away from the people and the noise and the sodding cameras.”

 

They’re both well past their wilder days, River insists, accepting a restless Atticus into her arms when he reaches for her with a wide yawn. They’re happiest when it’s just the four of them tucked away at home, rubbish on the telly and takeout containers on the coffee table, their limbs entwined on the sofa and the baby asleep on John’s chest.

 

The picture of domestic bliss she paints makes even this self-proclaimed bachelor long for something a little more permanent in his life. When asked the moments she loves best, River describes not times in front of the camera, sitting in the audience of her husband’s shows, or even seeing her own best-selling novels climb to the top of Must Read lists everywhere.

 

Rather, she speaks of reading to little Atticus at bedtime and braiding Arietta’s hair. Her eyes grow warm when she describes writing in the privacy of their bedroom, John barefoot and disheveled in the windowsill, his guitar and a pad of paper on his lap as he murmurs the lyrics to a new song. Smiling because she knows every verse is about her.

 

When asked the same question – when is he happiest? – John’s answer is simpler, but no less profound. He points to one recent memory with another of those rare grins. “This morning, with her,” he says, his soft-eyed gaze fixed on his blushing wife and the tyke slumbering in her arms. “Having coffee.”

 

Our meeting ends when their daughter Arietta returns home, rushing out into the garden and throwing herself into her father’s arms. He holds her close and listens attentively as she shows him all the books Auntie Missy had bought for her. All seems well until her eagle-eyed Papa spots the new holes in his daughter’s ears – decorated with tasteful but no doubt expensive black diamond studs.

 

River presses a calming hand over her husband’s arm. “Darling, don’t overreact.”

 

He ignores her, leveling a frightening glare toward the doorway where Missy lurks, blinking at him innocently. “What did I tell you?”

 

“You said no taking her to a shooting range, no buying her another pony, and no tattoos.” Missy folds her arms defiantly. “You never said anything about piercings.”

 

“It was implied,” he snarls, and Arietta giggles.

 

“Oh don’t be such a wet blanket.” Missy waves a hand at him. “Look at her, she’s alive, isn’t she? And she likes them, don’t you pet?”

 

Arietta nods, tugging at his sleeve with a pout. “Don’t be cross, Daddy.”

 

John deflates at once, glancing helplessly at his wife. When she only smirks in reply, he sighs and makes a valiant effort to unclench his jaw – clearly resigned to the whims of the women in his life. He rests his chin in his palm and grumbles to himself for a moment, watching Arietta bat her lashes at him. “Very pretty,” he finally manages. His little one and Missy both beam.

 

River kisses his cheek, still smiling.

 

I leave the Smith residence that afternoon with a pack of cigarettes River had insisted I take or John would fish them out of the rubbish bin but I’m also feeling strangely unsettled in my vagabond life, wondering if perhaps I should give those dating sites another go after all.

 

Love, it seems, isn’t as fairytale as the world would have us believe. As John Smith and River Song have proven, it’s very much alive and real. Rare and audacious and often complicated, but once found, stunning to look upon.


End file.
